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ESSAYS 


TALES    IN    PROSE. 


BY 


BARRY    CORNWALL 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 


VOL.  I. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,   REED,    AND   FIELDS. 

M  DCCCLIII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


THURSTON',  TOnnr,  and   EMERSOJf,   PBISTEES. 


StacR 


PREFACE. 


The  Author  of  the  following  Essays  and  Tales 
has  addressed  a  letter  to  us,  part  of  which  we  ex- 
tract, as  an  introduction  to  these  volumes. 


'  As  far  as  I  am  able  to  invest  you  with 
the  exclusive  right  of  publishing,  in  the  United 
States,  an  edition  of  these  prose  writings,  I  do 
so,  by  this  letter.  Some  of  them,  you  will  take 
note,  have  never  been  printed  in  their  present 
state  before. 

'  You  will  find,  amongst  these  selected  pa- 
pers, some  which  were  written  as  early  as  1820, 
and  one  as  late  (I  think)  as  1848  or  1849;  — 
some  which  pretend  to  be  "  lively,"  and  a  few 


IV  PEEFACE. 

which  are  strictly  "  severe  "  ;  —  several  essays, 
chiefly  on  poetical  subjects,  none  which  are  very 
elaborate; — and  a  story  or  two,  in  which  the 
pathos  perhaps  predominates,  while  the  moral 
(like  the  light  under  the  bushel)  is  hidden  from 
the  careless  observer. 

'  One  of  the  pieces  I  think  had  better  be 
omitted.  I  refer  to  an  essay  on  English  poetry, 
— written  hastily,  many  years  ago,  —  very  im- 
perfect, —  by  no  means  coming  up  to  my  idea 
of  the  subject  at  that  time,  —  and  very  far 
below  it  now. 

*  You  have  at  present  such  admirable  writers 
of  prose  fiction  in  America,  (amongst  others, 
Mr.  Hawthorne,  and  Mr.  Longfellow,)  that  I 
might  reasonably  feel  a  little  diffident  as  to  the 
reception  which  my  little  pieces  of  prose  are 
likely  to  encounter  from  your  countrymen.  But 
my  critics  —  English  as  well  as  American  — 
have  for  the  most  part  been  always  so  good- 
natured  to  my  efforts,  that  I  have  no  hesitation 
in  throwing   myself  upon  their  kindness  once 

again.' 

B.  W.  PROCTER. 
London,  October  13,  1352. 


PREFACE.  V 

We  have  taken  the  liberty  of  including  in  these 
volumes,  the  '  Essay  on  English  Poetry,'  referred  to 
by  Mr.  Procter  as  a  piece  he  thinks  '  had  better  be 
omitted,'  as  that  article,  on  its  appearance  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  was  very  generally  perused,  and 
highly  commended  by  the  public. 

THE   PUBLISHERS. 
Boston,  Nov.  1852. 


CONTENTS    OF   VOL.  I. 


Memoir  and  Essay  on  the  Genius  of  Shakspeee      .        .  1 

The  Death  of  Friends 62 

The  Spanish  Student 73 

A  Short  Mystery 91 

The  Portrait  On  My  Uncle's  Snuff-Box        .        .        .  105 

A  Day  in  Venice 127 

The  Stauntons 145 

A  Chapter  on  Portraits 162 

The  Prison-Breaker 169 

The  Planter 198 

Vicissitudes  in  a  Lawyer's  Life 214 

The  Man-Hunter        .......  237 

The  Two  Soldiers 255 


MEMOIR  AND    ESSAY  ON   THE    GENIUS 
OF  SHAKSPERE. 

PART    I. 

§  L 

Of  the  personal  history  of  Shakspere  —  the  great- 
est genius,  beyond  doubt  or  cavil,  that  ever  the  vi'orld 
produced  —  little  now  can  with  certainty  be  shown. 
The  registers  of  Stratford  ;  his  own  Sonnets ;  a  few 
casual  references  to  him,  in  the  writings  or  sayings  of 
cotemporary  authors ;  and  all  the  sources  from  which 
materials  for  his  life  may  be  safely  extracted,  are 
reckoned  up.  The  public  of  his  time  had  no  curi- 
osity on  the  subject,  or  the  writers  of  his  time  had  no 
anxiety  to  collect  or  yield  information,  regarding  him  5 
and  he  himself — beyond,  even, 

'  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds,' 

the  desire  of  fame  —  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
place  materials  for  his  own  history  on  record  ;  or, 
secure  of  such  immortality  as  earth  can  bestow,  was 
content  that  we  should  track  him  into  the  depths  and 
recesses  of  his  being,  by  the  light  of  his  genius  alone. 
What  he  did,  or  thought,  or  suffered,  in  his  own  indi- 

VOli.  I.  1 


2  MEMOIR   AND    ESSAY    ON 

vidual  person,  is  now  mere  matter  for  ingenious  con- 
jecture. We  are  sure  that  his  mind  was  vast,  liberal, 
compassionate,  generous  ;  —  that  he  saw  human  nature 
on  every  side,  detecting  it  in  its  many  masks  and 
changes  ;  —  that  he  penetrated  into  the  innermost 
mysteries  of  man  ;  that 

'  From  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time ' 

his  intellect  soared  upwards,  and  held  commerce  with 
the  stars  ;  with  our  dim  '  Hereafter ; '  and  with  worlds 
and  agencies  beyond  our  own ;  and  knowing  all  this, 
our  curiosity  as  to  the  possessor  of  faculties  so  varied 
and  wonderful,  and  our  consequent  disappointment  on 
being  baffled  at  every  point  of  inquiry,  becomes  pro- 
portionably  great. 

It  is  not  the  least  singular  of  the  causes  which  have 
cast  obscurity  upon  the  life  of  Shakspere,  that  so  much 
public  apathy  should  have  existed  amongst  his  cotem- 
poraries.  History,  indeed,  which  has  hitherto  dealt  in 
generals,  or  has  labored  only  to  rescue  from  oblivion 
the  lives  of  conquerors  and  kings,  forbore,  as  was  to 
be  expected,  from  recording  the  birth  or  death  of  a 
poet,  humbly  born,  and  distinguished  by  no  other 
crown  than  a  wreath  of  unfading  laurel :  but  that  the 
man  of  whose  writings  'rare  Ben  Jonson'  had  said 
that  they  were  such 

'  As  neither  man  nor  muse  can  praise  too  much ; ' 

whom  he  addressed  as  '  Soul  of  the  Age,'  celebrating 
him  above 

'  All  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 
Sent  forth  — ' 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  3 

and  predicting,  in  just  and  memorable  verse,  that 

'  He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  —  for  all  time  ! ' 

—  that  he  should  have  eluded  all  research,  or  should 
not  have  stimulated  some  one  of  his  coevals  to  give 
forth  to  the  world  what  could  then  have  readily  been 
collected  respecting  him,  requires  still  to  be  explained. 
He  was  admitted,  in  his  own  time,  to  be  the  first 
dramatist  of  his  country  ;  and  there  can  be  no  question 
but  that  he  was  so.  That  Fletcher,  Beaumont,  or 
other  playwrights,  may,  during  an  interval  of  fashion 
or  popular  caprice,  have  been  greater  favorites,  is 
probable  enough.  It  is  possible,  even,  that  some 
critics  (now  forgotten)  may  have  preferred  inferior 
writers.  But  no  other  poet  or  dramatist  of  our  coun- 
try could,  even  for  a  moment,  put  forth  such  substan- 
tial claims  to  enduring  fame,  as  seem  to  have  been 
allowed,  by  the  general  voice,  to  Shakspere.  Ben 
Jonson,  the  only  dramatist  who  could  compete  with 
him,  frankly  and  wisely  yields  the  precedency  ;  and  to 
oppose  any  other  writer,  however  respectable  in  his 
way  or  extolled  in  his  age,  would  be,  to  the  last  de- 
gree, absurd  and  hopeless. 

How  is  it  that  no  letters  of  Shakspere,  no  memo- 
randa respecting  him,  or  his  transactions  with  the 
theatres,  or  with  his  brother  actors,  should  have  escap- 
ed ?  It  is  true  that  the  fire,  which  occurred  in  1613, 
may  have  consumed  his  papers  relating  to  the  theatres, 
when  it  consumed  his  playhouse,  the  Globe.  But  one 
must  still  marvel  that  a  writer  on  whom  so  many  elegies 
were  showered,  and  whose  reputation  was  such  that, 
in   1623,  a  monument  was  erected  to  his  memory  in 


4  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

his  native  town,  should  have  passed  away  with  so  little 
of  cotemporaneous  record  or  comment.  Several 
persons,  including  Betterton,  the  famous  actor,  visited 
Stratford  during  the  seventeenth  century,  and  made 
inquiries  respecting  Shakspere  ;  one  of  them  interrogat- 
ing an  ancient  inhabitant  of  that  town,  who  was  himself 
born  about  the  time  of  Shakspere's  death ;  but  neither 
history  nor  tradition  had  furnished  him  with  more  than 
one  or  two  circumstances,  and  even  these  are  encoun- 
tered by  opposite  statements.  Under  all  these  difficulties, 
nothing  remains  but  to  take  some  things  upon  trust. 

Without  submitting  to  the  reader,  therefore,  in 
minute  detail,  the  reasons  that  induce  me  to  prefer  one 
hypothesis  to  another,  and  to  accept  one  and  reject 
another  statement,  I  shall  take  leave  to  adopt  silently 
those  only  which  appear  to  me  to  approach  nearest  to 
the  truth.  It  would  be  painful,  indeed,  if,  from  too 
fastidious  a  scepticism,  we  were  to  deprive  ourselves 
or  others  of  the  pleasure  of  supposing  that  we  know 
something,  at  least,  of  our  great  poet's  origin. 

§2. 

To  obtain  strict  legal  proof  of  the  birth  or  parentage 
of  Shakspere  is  now,  apparently,  beyond  the  power  of 
research.  His  identity  with  the  '  William  the  son  of 
John  Shakspere,'  who  was  baptized  in  1564,  has  not, 
I  imagine,  been  completely  established.  Sufficient  is 
known,  however,  to  induce  a  belief  that  the  ordinary 
accounts  of  his  parentage  and  birth  are  well  founded. 

William  Shakspehe,  then,  was  baptized  on  the 
26th  of  April,   1564.     The  words   •  Gulielmus  filius 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  5 

Johannes  Shakspere,'  are  on  that  day  entered  on  the 
baptismal  register,  of  the  parish  church  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon,  in  Warwickshire.  The  John  Shakspere, 
from  whom  this  great '  son '  descended,  was  apparently 
a  person  of  some  property  and  importance  at  Stratford, 
and  traded  as  a  glover  or  dealer  in  wool. 

Of  the  ancestry  of  John  Shakspere  it  is  impossible  to 
speak  with  any  certainty  ;  but  it  is  known  that  he  him- 
self arrived  at  the  dignity  of  bailiff  of  Stratford ;  that 
the  title  of  *  Master '  was  prefixed  to  his  name,  and 
that  he  married  a  lady  of  good  family.  The  mother 
of  our  dramatist  bore,  before  her  marriage  with  John 
Shakspere,  the  name  of  Mary  Arden.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Robert  Arden  (a  gentleman  possessing  a 
landed  estate  at  Willingcote,  or  Wylnecote,  in  War- 
wickshire), whose  father  was  groom  of  the  chamber  to 
King  Henry  VII.  A  Sir  John  Arden,  who  held  some 
office  of  honor  near  the  person  of  the  same  sovereign, 
was  the  uncle  of  her  before-mentioned  grandfather, 
and  also  son  of  one  Eleanor  Hampden,  of  Bucking- 
hamshire ;  who,  herself,  was  a  member  of  the  family 
from  which  the  illustrious  patriot  John  Hampden  after- 
wards descended. 

Under  the  will  of  Robert  Arden,  which  bears  date 
the  24th  of  November,  1556,  his  daughter  Mary 
derived  considerable  property  in  money  and  land. 
This  happened,  in  all  probability,  before  her  marriage 
with  John  Shakspere,  inasmuch  as  she  is  described  in 
the  will  merely  as  '  my  youngest  daughter  Mary,' 
without  any  additional  distinction. 

To    this    marriage    between   John    Shakspere    and 
Mary  Arden   (a  gentle   name,  as   it   has   been   truly 


6  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

called),  we  owe  tlie  birth  of  our  great  poet.  He  was 
born  in,  or  shortly  previous  to,  the  month  of  April, 
1564,  and,  with  all  his  family,  providentially  escaped 
the  plague,  which  broke  out  soon  afterwards  in  the 
town  of  Stratford,  and  committed  extensive  ravages 
amongst  the  inhabitants  of  the  place. 

In  1568,  John  Shakspere  became  bailiff  of  Stratford. 
In  1569,  he  obtained  a  grant  of  arms  from  Robert 
Cooke,  the  Clarencieux  of  the  time  ;  and  this  (having 
been  lost)  was  confirmed  by  Dethick,  Garter-King-at- 
Arms,  and  Camden  (then  Clarencieux),  in  1599,  All 
these  things  speak  for  the  respectability  of  position 
occupied  by  our  poet's  father;  and  the  circumstance 
of  his  mortgaging  his  wife's  estate,  in  the  interval 
between  the  two  grants  (1578),  seems  to  detract  little 
or  nothing  from  such  an  inference. 

The  arms  thus  granted  had  reference  to  the  family 
name,  Shakspere  ;  and  appear,  indeed,  rather  to  have 
been  confirmed  than  to  have  originated  in  the  grant  of 
1569;  for  the  preamble  to  the  license  of  1599,  which 
describes  John  Shakspere  as  a  '  gentlemen '  of  Strat- 
ford, refers  also  to  his  'parent  and  great-grandfather' 
as  having  done  '  faithful  and  approved  service  '  to  King 
Henry  VII. ;  and  assigns  that  circumstance,  together 
with  his  marriage  with  the  daughter,  and  one  of  the 
heirs,  of  Robert  Arden,  and  his  production  of  '  this  his 
ancient  coat  of  arms,'  as  so  many  reasons  for  the  grant. 
Thenceforward,  the  arms  of  Shakspere  — '  Gould,  on  a 
bend  sable  ;  and  a  speare  of  the  first,  the  point  steeled, 
proper,' —  were  quartered  with  the  arms  of  Arden, 

Beyond  this,  the  paternal  ancestry  of  Shakspere  is 
unknown.     There  is  little  doubt,  however,  but  that  he 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  7 

had  a  martial  origin.  The  name  shows  that  it  was,  in 
the  first  instance,  won  and  worn  by  an  able  soldier; 
perhaps  by  some  obscure  hero,  who  perilled  his  life,  in 
field  or  foray,  for  a  king  or  chieftain  now  as  obscure 
as  himself;  one  of  the  many  millions  who  have  had 
courage,  skill,  and  fidelity,  for  their  portion ;  but, 
wanting  an  historian,  have  sunk,  without  mark,  into 
the  oblivious  abysses  of  Time. 

§  3. 

In  1574,  some  houses  in  Henley-street,  Stratford, 
were  purchased  by  John  Shakspere  ;  and  in  1578,  he 
mortgaged  his  wife's  estate,  as  has  been  stated.  It 
seems  that  the  mortgagee  was  let  into  possession  of  the 
land ;  for,  about  twenty  years  afterwards,  a  suit  in 
equity  was  instituted  by  John  Shakspere,  for  redemp- 
tion or  recovery  of  the  mortgaged  property.  This 
mortgage  has  been  adduced  as  presumptive  proof  of 
the  distress  of  Shakspere's  father,  and,  thence,  of  the 
probability  of  a  want  of  education  in  his  son.  To 
persons  acquainted  with  transactions  of  this  nature, 
nothing  can  seem  more  rash  than  such  conclusions, 
drawn  from  such  imperfect  premises.  The  purchase 
of  houses,  in  1574,  denotes  —  if  it  denotes  anything  — 
a  superfluity  of  money  in  the  purchaser —  money  that, 
probably,  was  not  then  required  for  the  purposes  of  his 
trade ;  and  the  mortgage,  in  1578,  shows  that  the 
money,  which  was  invested  four  years  before,  was 
again  wanted.  But,  as  the  houses  were  retained,  and 
descended,  with  the  other  landed  estate,  to  his  son,  it 
seems  quite  unlikely  that  he  should  have  been  seriously 


8  MEMOIE   AND    ESSAY    ON 

impoverished.  As  to  the  allegations  by  John  Shak- 
spere  (in  the  suit)  of  his  own  poverty,  and  of  the  frauds 
practised  by  the  person  to  whom  he  mortgaged  his 
wife's  estate,  they  may  be  classed  amongst  the  many 
fictions  of  the  law.  If  all  the  allegations  contained  in 
bills  in  equity  were  to  be  taken  for  granted,  the  defend- 
ants (who,  according  to  the  plaintiffs'  statements,  are 
always  in  the  wrong),  would  present  such  a  body 
of  fraud,  conspiracy,  and  oppression,  as  never  was 
equalled  in  any  civilized  country. 

To  reconcile  all  the  doings  of  the  person  or  persons 
bearing  the  name  of  John  Shakspere  with  each  other — 
for  there  were  several  John  Shaksperes  at  Stratford 
—  would  be  a  difficult  task,  and,  as  it  appears  to  rne, 
an  unnecessary  one.  It  is  safer  to  proceed  upon  facts 
which,  to  use  a  species  of  pleonasm,  are  well  authenti' 
cated.  It  is  certain  that  John  Shakspere,  the  poet's 
father,  was  a  person  holding  a  respectable  position  in 
society;  that  he  married  the  daughter  of  an  ancient 
house  ;  that  he  was  himself  entitled  to  a  coat  of  arms, 
acquired  originally  by  services  to  the  country ;  that 
with  his  wife  he  obtained  a  landed  estate ;  that  he 
purchased  other  landed  property  out  of  his  own  money ; 
that  he  rose  to  such  dignities  as  his  native  town  offer- 
ed ;  and,  finally,  that  the  estates  which  he  purchased 
and  acquired  by  marriage  became,  after  his  death,  the 
property  of  his  son.  It  is  impossible,  in  the  face  of 
these  facts,  to  argue,  with  any  chance  of  success,  that 
he  was  a  pauper  or  insolvent.  Both  fact  and  probability 
weigh  strongly  against  such  a  presumption.  It  is  more 
wise,  I  think,  to  dismiss  the  little  anecdotes  and  author- 
ities which  have  been  urged  against  the  solvency  of 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SIIAKSPERE.  9 

John  Shakspere,  as  things  which  applied  to  another 
person  of  his  name  ;  or,  if  any  of  them  applied  to  him, 
that  they  could  not  have  shaken  his  station  in  life,  or 
have  affected  him,  otherwise  than  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  in  a  very  trivial  degree. 

There  can  be  small  doubt  but  that  our  poet  had 
as  good  an  education  as  the  town  of  Stratford  afforded ; 
and  that  the  learning  or  accomplishments,  in  Latin  and 
otherwise,  which  tradesmen  in  Stratford  possessed,  and 
which  they  bestowed  upon  their  children,  were  not 
withheld  from  William  Shakspere.  It  has  been  ascer- 
tained, that  the  intercourse  between  children  and  their 
parents  (aldermen  or  tradesmen  of  Stratford),  and  also 
between  some  of  the  tradesmen  themselves,  on  matters 
of  business,  was  occasionally  carried  on  by  Latin  letters 
and  communications.  Is  it  in  the  least  likely,  that 
Shakspere,  the  son  of  the  principal  officer  of  the  town, 
and  the  inheritor  of  a  valuable  estate,  should  be  wanting 
in  an  equal  amount  of  learning  ?  Is  it  possible  that, 
with  the  same  opportunities,  the  author  of  *  Troiltjs 

AND     CrESSIDA,'     of     *  AnTONY     AND     ClEOPATRA,'      of 

'  Julius  Cjesar,'  of  '  Coriolanus,'  should  have  passed 
his  youth  in  sloth  and  unlettered  ignorance?  To  come 
to  such  an  opinion,  we  must  suppose  that  the  eager 
aptitude  of  the  man  had  never  disclosed  itself  in  the 
boy  ;  and,  in  effect,  that  the  great  genius  of  Shakspere 
had  never  felt  the  restlessness  or  impulses  which  are  an 
integral  part  of  genius,  but  had  slumbered  in  utter 
idleness  throughout  the  whole  interval  of  boyhood. 
Ben  Jonson's  reference  to  his  '  little  Latin  and  less 
Greek,'  shows  that  he  knew  both  Latin  and  Greek; 
and  so  far  as  it  is  disparaging,  must  be  understood  to 


10  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY    ON 

speak  by  way  of  comparison,  between  the  mere  word- 
learning  of  Shakspere,  and  that  of  himself  (Jonson) 
and  other  ripe  scholars  of  the  time.  In  all  that  was 
essential,  whether  it  related  to  the  people  of  Rome  or 
Greece,  Shakspere  undoubtedly  knew  infinitely  more 
than  'rare  Ben  Jonson'  himself,  or  probably  arty  of  his 
cotemporaries. 

Leaving  the  question  of  our  poet's  education  and 
learning  to  be  canvassed  by  the  more  curious,  I  pro- 
ceed, and  find  that,  towards  the  close  of  the  year  1582, 
being  then  about  eighteen  years  and  seven  months  old, 
he  intermarried  with  Ann  Hathaway,  a  '  maiden  of 
Stratford,'  who,  if  the  inscription  on  her  tomb  be  correct, 
was  his  elder  by  eight  years.  Soon  after  the  marriage, 
namely,  on  the  26th  of  May,  1583,  Susanna,  their 
eldest  child,  was  baptized ;  and  on  the  2d  of  February, 
1585,  their  son  and  daughter,  Hamnet  and  Judith.  It 
appears  by  the  register  that  Hamnet  was  buried  on 
the  11th  of  August,  1596,  and  thereupon  Susanna 
and  Judith,  the  poet's  two  daughters,  became  his  co- 
heiresses. 

Susanna,  the  eldest  child  of  Shakspere,  married  John 
Hall,  gentleman  (who  was  a  physician  of  Stratford),  on 
the  5th  of  June,  1607,  she  being  then  thirty-four  years 
of  age ;  and  Judith,  the  younger  daughter,  married 
Thomas  Queeny  on  the  10th  of  February,  1616,  about 
two  months  only  before  the  death  of  her  fathel.  The 
wife  of  Shakspere,  as  it  is  supposed,  survived  him ;  for 
on  the  6th  of  August,  1623,  there  appears  on  the  regis- 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  11 

ter  the  burial  of  '  Mrs.  Sliakspere,  widow,'  who  must 
then  have  been  sixty-seven  years  old,  her  illustrious 
husband  dying  at  the  early  age  of  fifty-two.  His  will, 
a  copy  of  which  follows  this  introductory  essay,  ap- 
pears to  have  been  made  about  a  month  after  his 
daughter  Judith's  marriage,  and  to  have  preceded  by  a 
month  only  his  own  death ;  the  approach  of  which, 
in  all  probability,  then  became  visible  to  him. 

It  does  not  appear  that  the  poet's  youngest  daughter 
left  any  issue ;  but  there  was  one  child  of  Susanna, 
named  Elizabeth,  who  married  Thomas  Nash,  Esq., 
and  who  herself  had  a  daughter,  afterwards  the  wife  of 
Sir  Reginald  Forster ;  from  which  last-mentioned  mar- 
riage there  appears  to  have  been  a  descent  through  two 
generations.  The  family  of  Shakspere,  however,  in  the 
lineal  direction,  is  now  extinct. 

Various  conjectures  have  been  formed  as  to  the  mode 
in  which  Shakspere  was  employed,  previously  and  sub- 
sequently to  his  marriage ;  as  to  how  he  was  enabled  to 
maintain  his  wife  and  children;  as  to  the  motives  that 
induced  him  to  quit  Stratford  for  London,  and  other 
circumstances  very  desirable  to  know ;  but  all  which 
have  hitherto  been  diligently  sought  for  in  vain.  He  may 
have  been  a  schoolmaster  or  scrivener,  as  has  been 
suggested ;  but  I  shall  not  add  to  the  many  ingenious 
hypotheses  that  have  been  started,  by  any  idle  specula- 
tions of  my  own.  It  is  clear  that  it  was  his  destiny. 
Whether  impelled,  outwardly  or  ostensibly,  by  the 
persecution  of  others,  or  by  his  own  misfortunes  or  dis- 
content, is  an  inquiry  not  very  important.  It  was  his 
destiny ;  the  inner  call  of  his  genius,  which  bade  him 
seek  its  proper  development ;  which  drew  him,  by  its 


12  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

mysterious  influence,  from  the  solitudes  where  Nature 
is  dumb,  into  the  teeming  city,  —  into  those  crowds  and 
throngs  of  men  from  whom  he  learned  so  much ;  and 
to  whom,  and  to  whose  posterity,  he  taught  all  that  we 
see  written  down  in  that  volume  which  has  no  likeness, 
called,  '  The  Works  of  Shakspere.' 

The  story  of  the  deer-stealing,  and  of  the  prosecu- 
tion of  our  poet  by  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  rests  on  too 
uncertain  a  foundation  to  render  it  necessary  to  do  more 
than  simply  advert  to  it.  That  he  may  have  taken  part 
in  any  of  the  ordinary  frolics  of  the  time,  is  likely 
enough;  but  whether  that  was  the  cause  which  '  drove' 
him  to  London,  or  whether,  in  fact,  he  was  driven  there 
at  all,  is  beyond  the  power  of  any  one  at  present  to 
certify.  It  is  generally  thought  that  Shakspere  quitted 
Warwickshire  for  London  about  1586  or  1587;  but  in 
1589  he  was  one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  Blackfriars 
Theatre,  a  fact  that  seems  to  indicate  an  earlier  arrival 
in  the  metropolis  than  is  usually  supposed.  It  is  not 
very  probable  that  a  youth  who  left  Stratford  in  1587 
(whether  to  evade  the  pursuit  of  justice  or  not,  but  at 
all  events)  with  small  or  no  pecuniary  resources,  and 
with  the  burden  of  a  wife  and  children  upon  him, 
should,  in  the  space  of  about  a  couple  of  years,  become 
a  joint  proprietor  of  one  of  the  principal  theatres  in 
London. 

His  position  at  the  theatre,  as  proprietor,  in  1589, 
therefore,  seems  to  indicate  that  he  must  then  have  been 
a  considerable  period  in  London;  and  not  only  this, 
but  also  that  he  must  then  have  been,  for  a  con- 
siderable time,  a  writer  for  the  stage.  What,  in  fact, 
could  have  renovated  his  fortunes,  and  raised  him  to 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  13 

the  dignity  of  proprietor,  but  the  aid  that  be  had  given 
to  the  drama  ?  His  earliest  work,  according  to  his  own 
account  '  the  first  heir  of  his  invention,'  was  the  poem 
of  '  Venits  and  Adonis.'  That  was  printed  for  the 
first  time  in  1593  :  but  he  was  then  the  friend  of  Lord 
Southampton,  who  was  the  friend  of  genius.  How  had 
he  manifested  his  genius  and  acquired  his  friendship, 
which  did  both  so  much  honor,  before  1593,  unless  by 
the  dramas  which  he  had  without  doubt  at  that  time 
created  ?  The  fact  of  there  having  been  none  of  his 
plays  in  print  at  that  period  proves  nothing.  There  is, 
according  to  the  opinion  of  critics,  an  evident  and  a 
very  invidious  allusion  to  him,  as  actor  and  dramatist, 
in  Robert  Green's  '  Groatsworth  of  Wit,'  written  in 
or  before  the  year  1592 ;,  so  that  he  was  then  well 
known  as  a  writer  of  plays.  The  omission  of  Shak- 
spere's  name  in  Harrington's  '  Apologie  for  Poetry,' 
published  in  1590-1,  proves  not  that  Shakspere  had  not 
then  written,  but  simply  that  Harrington  either  pre- 
ferred the  plays  of  Lord  Buckhurst  and  others,  or  that 
he  was  unaware  of  the  dramas  of  Shakspere,  or  of 
their  merit.  If  the  plays  of  our  author  were  not  (as 
they  appear  to  have  been)  in  print  at  that  period,  the 
fact  of  Harrington  having  omitted  to  speak  of  the 
excellence  of  works  that  he  had  had  no  opportunity  of 
reading,  seems  to  be  sufficiently  accounted  for. 

On  the  arrival  of  Shakspere  in  London,  it  is  gene- 
rally supposed  that  he  resorted  to  the  stage  for  employ- 
ment ;  commencing,  probably,  as  actor,  for  it  is  certain 


14  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

that  he  was  an  actor  during  part  of  his  sojourn ;  and 
producing  afterwards,  from  time  to  time,  his  marvel- 
lous plays. 

It  has  been  discovered  that,  in  1596,  he  lived  near 
the  Bear  Garden,  in  Southwark,  his  residence  being 
also  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  theatre  to  which  he  was 
attached,  and  that  in  1609  he  occupied  a  good  house 
within  the  liberty  of  the  Clink.  It  would  appear  that 
he  remained  in  London  till  about  the  year  1611 ;  not 
longer,  for  in  March,  1612,  he  is  described  as  '  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  gentleman,'  in  a  deed  by  which 
a  house  in  Blackfriars,  which  he  had  purchased,  was 
conveyed  to  him  by  one  Henry  Walker.  During  his 
residence  in  London,  however,  he  made  occasional 
visits  to  Stratford,  in  the  course  of  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  stop  at  the  Crown  Inn,  at  Oxford,  at  that  time 
kept  by  one  John  Davenant ;  and  it  is  tolerably  certain 
that  he  became,  in  1606,  the  godfather  of  Davenant's 
son,  afterwards  known  as  Sir  William  Davenant,  the 
poet.  Previously  to  this,  he  had  acquired  the  friend- 
ship of  Lord  Southampton,  and  of  Lord  Pembroke; 
had,  in  1598,  been  admitted  to  an  intimacy  with  Ben 
Jonson  ;  and  had  associated  generally  with  the  wits  and 
writers  of  the  age.  It  was  at  the  Mermaid,  then  a  tavern 
of  note  in  Fleet  Street,  that  Shakspere,  Jonson,  Beau- 
mont, Fletcher,  and  other  social  men  of  genius  were 
wont  to  congregate;  and  there*  it  was,  that  those  lively 

*  The  following  is  Fuller's  account  of  Shakspere,  in  his 
'  Worthies  of  England  : '  '  He  was  an  eminent  instance  of 
the  truth  of  that  rule,  ^  poeta  non  fit,  sed  nascitur :  one  is  not 
made  but  born  a  poet.'  Many  were  the  wit  combats  betwixt 
him  and  Ben  Jonson,  which  two  I  behold  like  a  Spanish  great 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  15 

interchanges  of  wit  and  vivacity,  those  '  wit  combats,' 
which  we  are  told  of,  occurred  between  Ben  and  Shak- 
spere.  Amongst  other  persons  he  was  acquainted  with 
Alleyn,  the  founder  of  Dulwich  College,  and  during 
that  person's  absence  in  the  country,  was  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  his  wife,  who  remained  in  London,  In  one  of 
her  letters  to  her  absent  husband,  she  informs  him  that 
a  certain  Mr.  Francis  Chaloner  had  endeavored  to  bor- 
row ten  pounds  ;  but  that  '  Mr.  Shakspere,  of  the  Globe, 
who  came  *  *  *  said  he  knew  him  not,  only  he  herd 
of  him  that  he  was  a  roge,  so  he  was  glad  we  did  not 
lend  him  the  money.'  This  is  the  only  real  anecdote 
that  we  possess  of  Shakspere  during  his  London  resi- 
dence. Amongst  other  acquisitions  of  this  period,  not 
to  be  forgotten,  our  poet  obtained  the  approbation  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  before  whom  some  of  his  plays  were 
performed,  and  who  is  said  to  have  '  appreciated  his 
genius.'     There  is  no  evidence  that 

'  She  showered  her  bounties  on  him,  like  the  Hours,* 

or,  in  fact,  that  she  rewarded  him  with  anything  more 
solid  than  her  smiles ;  a  cheap  mode  of  remunerating 
genius,  but  which,  to  the  credit  of  that  age,  was  not 
then  common  with  persons  of  illustrious  rank. 

That  Shakspere  was  loved  as  well  as  admired  by 
many  of  his  cotemporaries,  is  well  authenticated.    Ben 

galleon  and  an  English  man  of  war.  Master  Jonson,  like  the 
former,  was  built  far  higher  in  learning  ;  solid,  but  slow  in  his 
performances.  Shakspere,  like  an  Englishman  of  war,  lesser 
in  bulk  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn  with  all  tides,  tack 
about  and  take  advantage  of  all  winds,  by  the  quickness  of  his 
wit  and  invention.' 


16  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY   ON 

Jonson  (a  warm  hearted  man,  as  well  as  a  sterling 
writer)  declares,  '  I  do  love  the  man  and  honor  his 
memory,  on  this  side  of  idolatry,  as  much  as  any  :  he 
was  indeed  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature  ;' 
and  the  editors  of  the  folio  edition  of  .the  plays,  say 
that  they  have  collected  them  *  to  keep  the  memory  of 
so  worthy  a  friend  and  fellow  alive,  as  was  our  Shak- 
spcre.'  Whether  the  poet  was  beloved  by  any  one  of 
the  opposite  sex,  remains  a  mystery.  From  the  tenof 
of  some  of  his  sonnets,  there  is  reason  to  suppose  that 
he  attached  himself  to  some  female,  and  that  he  was  ill 
requited. 

A  few  years  ago  some  papers  were  written  on  this 
obscure  subject,  entitled,  if  I  remember  rightly,  *  Th6 
Confessions  of  Shakspere.'  They  were  made  out,  with 
great  ingenuity,  from  the  '  Sonnets'  alone  ;  combining 
and  consolidating  the  several  parts  of  each  into  one 
(as  it  were)  authentic  narrative.  And,  indeed,  as  one 
travels  through  these  records  of  the  great  poet's  feel- 
ings, a  dim  and  shadowy  History  seems  to  rise  and  dis- 
close itself  before  us :  an  intimation  not  to  be  neglected, 
seeing  that  such  a  man,  however  entangled  amongst 
the  conceits  and  fancies  of  his  age,  would  hardly,  in 
his  own  person,  have  wasted  such  sad  and  passionate 
verses  on  any  subject  that  had  no  foundation  in  truth. 

On  quitting  London,  Shakspere  retired  to  his  native 
town  of  Stratford.  He  had  previously  purchased  one  of 
the  best  houses  there,  called  '  New  Place,'  and  in  this 
house  he  lived  and  died.  He  was  buried  on  the  25th 
of  April,  1616,  on  the  north  side  of  the  chancel  of  thd 
great  church  of  Stratford*  A  monument  was  shortly 
afterwards  —  certainly  before  the  year  1623  —  erected 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  17 

to  his  memory.  The  artist  has  represented  him  in  a 
sitting  posture,  with  a  pen  in  his  right  hand,  and  his  left 
resting  on  a  scroll  of  paper ;  and  on  the  cushion  which 
appears  spread  out  before  him,  are  engraved  the  fol- 
lowing lines  : 

'  Judicio  Pylium,  genio  Socratem,  arte  Maronem, 
Terra  tegit,  populus  moeret,  Olympus  habet.' 

Not  much  can  be  said  of  this  monument  as  a  work 
of  art :  it  is  poor  enough.  And  yet  to  this  tomb,  and 
to  the  house  wherein  he  (is  supposed  to  have)  lived  and 
died,  how  many  thousand  pilgrims  have  since  come  ! 
Here,  people  of  all  ages  and  all  nations  have  re- 
paired, for  upwards  of  two  hundred  years.  Walls 
covered  with  inscriptions  (each  man  eager  to  write 
down  his  admiration)  attest  the  worth  and  influence  of 
a  great  poet.  It  would  have  been  creditable  to  this 
country,  or  to  its  government,  if  some  fit  memorial,  in 
bronze  or  marble,  had  been  built  up  in  his  honor. 
For,  although  (as  Milton  sings) 

'  What,  needs  my  Shakspere  for  his  honored  bones, 
The  labor  of  an  age  in  pil^d  stones  ? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-y  pointing  pyramid  ? ' 

yet  that  does  not  exonerate  us  from  paying  the  tribute 
due  to  his  memory ;  however  it  may  account  for  the 
abundance  of  statues  which  we  have  erected,  in  the 
vain  hope  of  immortalizing  people  who  have  shed 
neither  glory  nor  light  of  any  sort  upon  the  English 
nation. 

VOL.    I.  2 


18  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY    ON 

§  6. 

As  part  of  the  biography  of  Shakspere,  it  would  have 
been  very  desirable  to  have  ascertained  the  order  in 
which  his  plays  were  written.  It  would  have  exhibited 
the  gradations,  and,  perhaps,  fluctuations,  of  his  intel- 
lect, and  have  cast  light  on  many  questions  of  great 
interest  relating  to  the  works  themselves ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, this  must  still  remain  doubtful.  The  subject  has 
been  frequently  discussed ;  and  trifling  facts  have  from 
time  to  time  arisen,  proving  that  certain  plays  had  been 
actually  performed  when,  as  was  once  supposed,  they 
existed  only  in  the  imagination  of  the  author.  But  noth- 
ing like  satisfactory  evidence  has  been  produced  to  show 
at  what  precise  time  any  one  play  was  written.  We 
know  that  some  plays  were  printed,  and  that  others 
were  represented,  in  certain  years.  But  we  do  not 
know  how  long  before  those  years  these  dramas  were 
actually  composed,  nor  whether  other  plays,  which 
were  made  public  at  a  later  date,  were  not  then  in 
existence. 

For  my  own  part,  I  think  that,  in  determining  the 
chronology  as  well  as  the  authenticity  of  Shakspere's 
plays,  there  is,  after  all,  no  evidence  like  the  internal 
evidence  ;  no  proof  like  the  plays  themselves.  Other 
proofs  may  be,  and  have,  in  similar  cases,  repeatedly 
been  found  fallacious.  But  there  is  no  retrograding  in 
point  of  style  ;  no  going  back  from  the  style  of  vigorous 
manhood,  or  even  the  neatness  and  fastidiousness  of 
later  life,  to  the  loose,  unsettled  character  which  inva- 
riably betrays  the  youthful  writer.  A  date  may  be 
incorrectly  given  ;  a  report  may  be  without  foundation ; 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  19 

a  second  edition  may  be  mistaken  for  a  first;  and  the 
work  which  is  pubUshed  to-day,  may,  in  manuscript, 
have  many  predecessors.  In  Shakspere's  case,  the 
doubts  are  so  strong  and  numerous,  that  we  are  thrown 
back  ahogether  upon  conjecture.  Had  the  great  author, 
indeed,  left  anything  which  could  have  enabled  us  to 
unravel  the  mystery,  the  question  might  have  assumed 
another  aspect ;  but,  in  the  absence  of  all  information 
from  himself,  we  cannot  do  better,  as  I  have  said,  than 
consult  his  works. 

The  principal  point  of  interest  is  as  to  those  plays 
with  which  he  commenced  his  labors  ;  for  we  have  his 
own  acknowledgment,  that  '  the  first  fruit  of  his  inven- 
tion '  was  the  poem  of  '  Venus  and  Adonis.'  If  it 
could  be  satisfactorily  ascertained  that  '  Titus  Andro- 
Nicus '  and  the  First  Part  of  '  Henry  the  Sixth  '  were 
written  by  him,  I  should  be  disposed  to  place  them  at 
the  commencement  of  the  list.  But  I  doubt  their 
authenticity ;  and  I  altogether  disbelieve  all  reports 
and  dissent  from  all  opinions  which  aim  at  fathering 
upon  him  '  Sir  John  Oldcastle,'  *  Thomas,  Lord 
Cromwell,'  and  '  The  Yorkshire  Tragedy.'  They 
are  decidedly  spurious  :  and  the  circumstance  of 
Schlcgel  having  pronounced  his  deliberate  conviction 
that  those  wretched  performances  '  unquestionably ' 
belonged  to  Shakspere,  —  nay,  that  they  '  are  amongst 
his  best  and  maturest  works,'  —  is  almost  enough  to 
beget  a  doubt  as  to  the  originality  of  some  of  his  own 
critical  opinions. 

'  TiTus  Andronicus,'  the  First  Part  of '  Henry  the 
Sixth,'  and  '  Pericles,'  are  said  to  contain  passages 
which  show,  beyond  all  question,  that  Shakspere  was 


20  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY   ON 

their  author.  But  short  pasages,  having  the  stamp  of 
Shakspere,  prove  no  more  than  that  he  occasionally 
retouched  and  invigorated  the  dramas  that  came  before 
him  ;  a  circumstance  which  is  by  no  means  improbable. 
In  respect  to  '  Pericles,'  I  think,  from  a  careful  read- 
ing of  the  play,  that  the  three  last  acts  were  undoubtedly 
written  by  Shakspere.  No  other  man  could  write  in 
the  same  style,  or  in  a  style  so  good.  The  two  first 
.acts  are,  indeed,  very  unlike  his  composition  ;  and 
there  is  something  in  the  early  part  of  the  plot  that,  I 
suspect,  never  originated  in  his  invention.  '  Titus 
Andronicus  '  and  the  First  Part  of  '  Henry  the 
Sixth,'  are  in  a  different  predicament.  In  the  more 
material  qualities  of  a  play,  —  in  character,  in  plot,  in 
spirited  intelligent  dialogue,  —  these  two  dramas  are 
deficient.  Talbot  (in  the  latter  play)  is  a  bold  sketch, 
and  the  scene  between  him  and  the  Countess  of 
Auvergne,  is  striking  and  dramatic  ;  but,  in  the  main, 
the  dramatis  persona  differ  but  litde  from  each  other, 
whilst  the  level  style  of  the  verse,  and  the  brutal  treat- 
ment of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  at  the  close,  betray,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  the  hand  of  an  inferior  dramatist.  How- 
ever Shakspere  may  have  yielded  to  the  national 
prejudices  of  his  age,  he  was  too  noble  and  humane 
to  have  attempted  to  justify  upon  the  stage  that  most 
atrocious  tragedy,  in  which  the  English  barbarians  of 
the  time  consummated  their  renown,  by  burning  to  death 
an  enemy  who  was  at  once  a  woman  and  their  prisoner. 
Amongst  the  ineradicable  stains  upon  the  arms  of 
England  (small  and  few  in  number,  I  trust),  this 
diabolical  act  of  the  murder  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans 
stands  out  blackest  and  unparalleled. 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  21 

In  regard  to  '  Titas  Andkonicus,'  it  has  always 
appeared  to  me  to  have  issued  from  the  same  mint, 
and  to  bear  the  same  stamp  as  '  Lust's  Dominion,' 
which  is  known  to  have  been  produced  by  Marlowe. 
With  the  exception  of  one  beautiful  passage,  there  is 
the  same  style  of  verse  (totally  unlike  that  adopted  in 
Shakspere's  known  plays),  the  same  exaggeration  and 
confusion  of  character,  the  same  mock  (with  occasional 
real)  sublimity,  which  the  tragedies  of  Marlowe  present ; 
and,  above  all,  the  same  villanous  ferocity  and  blood- 
thirstiness  which  Marlowe  delighted  to  indulge  in,  and 
which  Shakspere's  far-sighted  genius  altogether  dis- 
dained. Marlowe  (although  he  has  fine  and  even 
grand  bursts  of  poetry)  stands  forth,  the  historian  of 
lust  and  villany,  and  the  demonstrator  of  physical 
power ;  while  Shakspere  is  ever  the  champion  of 
humanity  and  intellect. 

If  the  two  last  mentioned  plays  may,  contrary  to  my 
expectation,  claim  Shakspere  for  their  author,  then  I 
think  that  they  must  have  been  the  earliest  of  his 
dramatic  productions ;  and,  in  all  probability,  the  Sec- 
ond and  Third  parts  of  '  Henry  the  Sixth  '  speedily 
followed  ;  for  the  style  throughout  is  like  that  of  Mar- 
lowe, although  those  '  parts '  present  more  subtle  and 
numerous  distinctions  of  character  than  that  dramatist 
has  ever  drawn. 

About  this  time  Shakspere  must  have  begun  to 
assume  an  independent  style  in  his  plays  ;  and  now,  I 
imagine,  he  composed  the  '  Tw^o  Gentlemen  of 
Verona.'  This  play  has,  in  all  respects,  a  youthful 
character,  and  it  is  undoubtedly  his.  Almost  all  the 
similes  and  sentiments  have  reference  to  love,  without 


22  MEMOIR   AND    ESSAY    ON 

the  intermixture  of  weightier  matter.  The  metre  is 
wanting  in  pliancy  and  sinew  ;  but  the  occasional 
sententious  lines,  the  play  upon  words,  the  style  and 
quality  of  the  comedy,  with  its  jokes  dovetailed  and 
full  of  retorts,  all  point  him  out  as  the  author.  It  is  a 
slight  play  compared  with  many  others  of  later  date  ; 
but  there  is  a  passion  and  freshness  in  it,  as  though  it 
had  been  breathed  forth  in  that  time  of  year  when 
April 

'  Had  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything.' 

Perhaps  '  Love's  Labor's  Lost  '  was  played  next. 
It  is  a  decided  advance  in  power,  in  style,  and  even 
in  dramatic  skill.  With  the  exception  of  Launce  (in 
whom  the  germ  of  much  that  afterwards  blossomed  out 
is  obvious),  and,  perhaps,  of  Julia,  there  is  little  of 
character  in  the  '  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.'  But 
Biron  and  Rosaline,  Boyet,  Armado  and  his  page, 
Moth  ('that  handful  of  wit'),  Holofernes,  and  Costard, 
are  all  clear  outlines,  although  all  of  them  may  not  be 
very  strong.  And  some  of  the  poetry  in  this  play  is, 
as  mere  poetry,  equal  to  that  of  Shakspere's  maturer 
time.     The  aphorism 

'  A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,' 

is  profound  and  Shaksperian.  The  play  itself  looks  as 
though  it  rested  on  some  event  in  the  history  of 
Provence,  in  times  when  the  Troubadours  figured  in 
the  solemn  masquerades  of  Love.  The  two  principal 
characters,  Biron  and  Rosaline,  were  afterwards  recast 
by  Shakspere,  with  some  alterations,  and  appear  under 
the  names  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice. 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  23 

In  what  order  the  rest  of  the  plays  followed,  at  what 
period  the  greatest  dramas  were  produced,  and  what 
was  the  final  work  of  this  unequalled  poet,  I  will  not 
pretend  to  guess.  As  a  general  principle,  however,  I 
would  say,  that  the  plays  in  which  signs  of  imitation 
(particularly  imitation  of  style)  are  manifest,  should  be 
accounted  the  earliest ;  and  that  those  wherein  the 
poetry  is  redundant  and  far  exceeds  the  necessities  and 
purposes  of  the  story,  should  be  held  to  have  preceded, 
in  point  of  time,  the  great  and  substantial  dramas,  in 
which  the  business  of  the  play  is  skilfully  wrought  out, 
and  where  the  poetry  springs  out  of  the  passion  or 
humor  of  the  characters,  and  serves  to  illustrate  and 
not  to  oppress  them.  In  conformity  with  this  view,  I 
think  that  the  '  Winter's  Tale,'  although  perhaps  not 
actually  performed  until  the  year  1611,  can  never  have 
been  the  last  work  of  Shakspere.  It  is  far  more  like 
the  labor  of  his  youth.  That  the  'Tempest'  should 
have  been  the  last  play  is  far  less  unlikely;  and  I 
would  fain  connect  it,  if  possible,  with  his  farewell  to 
the  stage,  were  it  only  for  those  beautiful  and  melan- 
choly words  of  Prospero,  with  which  he  (another 
enchanter)  abandons  his  '  so  potent  art : ' 

'  This  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure  ;  and,  when  I  have  required 
Some  heavenly  music  (which  even  now  I  do), 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I  '11  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth. 
And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 
I  '11  drown  my  book.' 


Si  MEMOIR  AND    ESSAY    ON 


PART     II. 

Whatever  doubts  may  exist  concerning  the  parent- 
age or  education  of  Shakspere  ;  —  concerning  his 
residence,  his  mode  of  life,  his  progress  from  poverty 
to  wealth ;  or  concerning  the  order  of  his  dramas, 
showing  thereby  his  ascension  from  the  immaturity  of 
boyhood,  to  that  full  perfection  of  mind  which  he  after- 
wards attained ;  there  can  be  none  as  to  the  quality  of 
his  intellect,  nor,  in  my  opinion,  as  to  the  vast  benefits 
which  he  conferred  upon  the  world. 

Poetry,  the  material  in  which  Shakspere  dealt,  has 
been  treated  often  as  a  superfluity  —  as  a  thing  unim- 
portant to  mankind,  and  as  a  luxury  against  which 
sumptuary  laws  might  be  fairly  levelled.  This  is  the 
opinion  of  men  of  literal  understanding,  who,  seeing  no 
merit  in  poetry  because  it  differs  from  science,  and  over- 
looking its  logic,  which  is  involved  instead  of  being 
demonstrated,  pronounce  at  once  against  it.  It  is  more 
especially  an  opinion  of  the  present  age  ;  an  age  in 
which  the  material  world  has  been  searched  and 
ransacked  to  supply  new  powers  and  luxuries  to  man  ; 
and  in  which  the  moral  world  has  been  too  much 
neglected. 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  25 

We  do  not  encourage  the  poet ;  but  we  encourage 
the  chemist  and  the  miner,  the  capitalist,  the  manufac- 
turer. We  encourage  voyagers,  who  penetrate  the 
forests  of  Mexico,  the  South  Indian  pampas,  and  the 
sterile  tracts  of  Africa  beyond  the  mountains  of  the 
moon.  These  people  tell  us  of  new  objects  of  com- 
merce ;  they  bring  us  tidings  of  unknown  lands.  Yet, 
what  a  vast  unexplored  world  lies  about  us !  what  a 
dominion,  beyond  the  reach  of  any  traveller  —  beyond 
the  strength  of  the  steam-engine  —  nay,  even  beyond 
the  power  of  material  light  itself  to  penetrate  —  is 
there  to  be  attained  in  that  region  of  the  brain !  Much 
have  the  poets  won,  from  time  to  time,  out  of  that  deep 
obscure.  Homer  has  bequeathed  to  us  his  discoveries, 
and  Dante  also,  and  our  greater  Shakspere.  They  are 
the  same  now,  as  valuable  now,  as  on  the  day  whereon 
they  were  made.  In  our  earth,  all  is  for  ever  changing. 
One  traveller  visits  a  near  or  a  distant  country ;  he  sees 
traces  (temples  or  monuments)  of  human  power ;  but 
unforeseen  events,  earthquake  or  tempest,  obliterate 
them ;  or  the  people  who  dwelt  near  them  migrate  ; 
the  eternal  forest  grows  round  and  hides  them  ;  or  they 
are  left  to  perish,  for  the  sake  of  a  new  artist,  whose 
labors  are  effaced  in  their  turn.  And  so  goes  on  the 
continual  change,  the  continual  decay.  Governments 
and  systems  change  ;  codes  of  law,  theories  philosophi- 
cal, arts  in  war,  demonstrations  in  physics.  Everything 
perishes  except  Truth,  and  the  worship  of  Truth,  and 
Poetry  which  is  its  enduring  language. 

And  now,  when  I  am  about  to  speak  of  some  of  the 
great  qualities  of  Shakspere,  I  do  not  propose  to  be  very 
critical.     It  is  better  to  approach  him  with,  as  I  think 


26  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

Mr.  Coleridge  has  suggested,  an  '  affectionate  rever- 
ence.' It  is  safer  to  err  on  the  side  of  too  much  respect. 
I  am  unwilling  to  discuss,  at  length,  his  (so  called)  want 
of  utility,  or  his  morality,  or  his  historical,  geogra- 
phical, or  verbal  errors ;  some  of  which  last  may  be 
ascribed  to  the  age  he  lived  in,  whilst  others  may  be 
safely  placed  to  the  account  of  interpolators  or  trans- 
cribers of  his  plays.  Besides,  our  poet  deals  with 
subjects  so  many  and  so  various,  and  he  is  of  so  high 
an  intellect,  that  I  dare  not  venture  to  speak  of  him  as 
of  any  other  writer.  He  has  been  denounced  lately, 
I  hear,  as  an  offender  against  letters ;  stripped  and 
hacked  and  scarified,  to  satisfy  the  bad  humor  of  some 
very  unenviable  person.  I  have  forborne  to  read  this 
libel  against  the  greatest  man  that  the  world  has  pro- 
duced, being  already  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the 
freedom  of  preceding  critics. 

The  flattery  or  good-nature  of  these  writers  (now  an 
important  body)  has  done  but  little  harm.  No  book 
can  live  and  take  its  permanent  place,  unless  it  has  in 
itself  the  seeds  of  vitality.  But  the  injury  which  lite- 
rature suffers  from  dishonest,  malignant  criticism,  is 
very  great.  It  is  true  that  a  commanding  genius  is  not 
to  be  repressed  by  malevolence  or  envy  :  and  it  is  true, 
perhaps,  that  merit  of  every  order  will  make  its  way 
in  the  end,  and  secure  its  due  reputation.  But,  in  the 
meantime,  we,  the  cotemporaries,  are  defrauded  of  the 
fruits  gathered  in  for  us ;  and  the  laborer  is  cheated  of 
his  hire.  Readers  of  books  are  for  the  most  part  an 
indolent  race.  They  prefer  taking  the  opinions  of 
the  present  or  last  generation,  to  searching  for  those 
which   are   a   century   old.      In   fact,    men   associate 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  27 

themselves  insensibly  with  the  people  of  their  age. 
Their  habits,  including  even  the  habit  of  thinking, 
nm  very  much  in  the  same  current.  An  original 
thinker  will  indeed  accept  nothing  upon  hearsay ;  he 
will  investigate  and  judge  for  himself.  But  the  rank 
and  file  of  men  hug  an  error  to  their  souls ;  repeat  and 
propagate  it,  till  even  truth  is  for  a  time  discomfited. 
The  fact  is,  that  fame  sometimes  depends  upon  a  happy 
conjunction  of  influences.  Not  only  Pallas  and  Apollo, 
but  Jove  and  Mercury  also,  must  assemble  and  deter- 
mine the  point.  The  old  dramatists  of  England  lay 
inhumed,  without  mark  or  epitaph,  for  170  years.  At 
last,  a  clerk  in  the  India  House,  whose  taste  led  him 
to  ponder  over  ancient  books,  pierced  the  darkness  in 
which  they  lay,  and  saw  their  value.  It  was  as  though 
a  diver,  suddenly  let  down  in  some  remote  spot  of  the 
ocean,  had  beheld  these  '  sumless  wrecks  and  sunken 
treasuries,'  and  had  brought  up  wealth  inexhaustible, 
rich  gems,  and  gold,  and  antique  ornaments, —  for  ages 
neglected  or  forgotten. 

Shakspere  himself  has  suffered,  in  his  time,  from 
commentators  and  critics,  foreign  and  domestic.  The 
opinions  of  Voltaire,  even  now,  interfere  with  the 
progress  of  his  fame  in  France.  Our  great  poet,  how- 
ever, has,  by  dint  of  his  irrepressible  power,  risen  above 
all  ordinary  impediments  which  beset  the  course  of 
authors, 

'  Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot,' 

and  has  taken  his  station  at  the  head  of  all.  In  this 
country,  at  least,  he  requires  no  defender ;  scarcely, 
indeed,  an  expounder  of  his  meaning,  notwithstanding 


28  MEMOIR    AND    ESSA?    ON 

the  change  that  our  language  has  undergone  since  his 
tinne.  All  that  is  left  is  to  have  some  discretion  in  our 
worship  ;  to  enumerate  some  of  his  qualities  ;  to  reckon 
up,  as  far  as  space  and  one  own's  ability  will  permit, 
the  good  deeds  that  he  has  done :  and  thus  leave  him 
—  in  a  new  shape  —  tended  and  decorated  by  a  new 
artist,  his  characters  drawn  out  by  the  pencil,  and  many 
of  his  delicate  fancies  (as  I  think)  delicately  handled, 
to  take  his  chance  with  the  English  public. 

And  here,  it  may  be  well  to  advert  to  some  of  the 
points  on  which  others  have  already  spoken.  Amongst 
other  titles  to  respect,  Shakspere  has  been  styled  the 
originator  of  our  '  romantic  Drama.'  This  phrase 
conveys  a  very  erroneous,  for  it  conveys  a  very  insuffi- 
cient, idea  of  what  he  did,  even  for  the  Drama.  The 
word  '  romantic,'  either  in  its  old  signification  (of 
'wild,'  or  'improbable'),  or  coupled  with  its  recent 
and  more  ludicrous  associations,  is,  to  the  last  degree, 
disparaging  and  untrue,  as  applied  to  him.  That  he 
pursued  the  lofty,  the  heroic,  and  the  supernatural,  and 
subdued  them  to  his  use,  is  well  known;  but  probability 
and  truth  are  the  very  qualities  by  which  he  is  distin- 
guishable, above  all  other  writers.  Taking  the  outline 
of  his  stories  for  granted  (a  necessary  postulate),  his 
plots  are  admirably  managed ;  and  his  characters  are 
absolutely  living  people  ;  true  in  the  antique  time,  true 
in  his  own,  and  true  in  ours  : 

'  Age  cannot  wither  them,  nor  custom  stale 
Their  infinite  variety.' 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  29 

To  know  what  Shakspere  achieved,  it  is  only  necessary 
to  look  at  the  previous  history  of  the  stage.  Before  his 
time,  the  drama  was  a  narrow  region.  With  the  single 
exception  of  the  Greek  drama,  it  bore  no  comparison, 
in  any  country,  with  the  other  departments  of  national 
literature.  And  even  in  Greece,  as  elsewhere,  the 
drama  was  cramped  and  limited  in  its  very  nature.  It 
did  not  extend  beyond  its  own  history,  or  superstitions  ; 
it  dealt  with  a  single  event  that  was  familiar  to  all,  and 
in  which  the  whole  course  of  the  story  was  visible  from 
the  outset  to  the  end.  It  embodied  the  anger  of  Jove, 
the  power  of  remorse,  the  pains  and  penalties  of  sinful 
or  presumptuous  men :  or  it  reflected  the  distorted 
humors  or  singularities  of  the  time,  after  the  fashion  of 
a  farce  or  a  satire.  This  was  the  case  throughout  all 
antiquity. 

In  our  own  rude  beginnings,  the  same  meagreness  of 
outline  and  poverty  of  character  prevailed  ;  without 
any  of  the  grandeur  of  thought,  or  beauty  of  language, 
which  distinguished  the  drama  of  Athens.  As  ^schylus 
had  given  to  the  ancients,  Diana  and  Apollo,  Strength, 
Force,  and  the  Furies ;  so  the  English  Mysteries  and 
Moralities  presented  to  our  forefathers  Knowledge,  and 
Good  Council,  and  Death,  and  Sathan  the  Devil,  and 
the  rest.  The  names  of  such  personages  sufficiently 
announce  their  errands,  and  show  that  the  object  of 
these  little  dramas  was  simply  didactic.  They  con- 
veyed moral  and  religious  lessons  to  communities  who 
were  unacquainted  with  books ;  and  possessed,  we 
may  imagine,  some  extrinsic  attractions,  which  drew 
together  spectators  and  auditors  whom  the  homilies  of 
the  ecclesiastics  had  failed  to  collect. 


30  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY   ON 

The  growing  intelligence  of  the  public  could  not, 
however,  long  rest  content  with  these  inartificial  dramas ; 
and  accordingly  Tragedy  and  Comedy  began,  simulta- 
neously, about  the  time  of  the  birth  of  Shakspere,  to 
manifest  themselves  in  more  regular  shapes  upon  the 
English  stage.  This  dawn  announced  a  coming  day. 
Yet,  there  is  nothing  in  this  period,  except  the  plays  of 
Marlowe,  that  need  detain  us ;  although  Peele  has 
sweet  and  flowing  lines,  and  Lily  some  charming  pas- 
sages, in  which  he  has  revived  all  the  romance  and 
more  than  the  sentiment  of  the  ancient  Grecian  fables. 
Marlowe  was  the  only  great  precursor  of  Shakspere.  He 
was  far  from  a  perfect  dramatist.  His  characters  are 
defective  in  discrimination,  in  delicacy,  and  in  truth. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  a  daring  and  powerful  writer, 
and  his  '  mighty  line'  is  known,  by  reputation  at  least, 
to  all  readers  of  English  literature.  Some  of  his 
thoughts  and  images  are  not  unworthy  of  Shakspere 
himself.     The  well-known  lines  — 

'  Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burned  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ? ' 

may  be  referred  to  as  a  fine  instance  of  imagination. 
His  bold,  reckless  heroes,  however,  are  carried  to  the 
very  limits  of  extravagance,  and  his  women  are  extrav- 
agant also,  or  without  mark.  He  is  altogether  of  the 
earth,  earthy :  he  riots  in  the  sensual  and  diabolical,  and 
tramples  down  all  probabilities.  And  yet,  amidst  all 
this,  are  interspersed  proud  and  heroic  thoughts,  classi- 
cal allusions,  harmonious  cadences,  that  elevate  and 
redeem  his  dramas  from,  otherwise,  inevitable  dis- 
gust.    For  some  of  these  faults  Marlowe  was  himself 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPEEE.  31 

answerable,  but  many  of  them  may  be  fairly  ascribed 
to  the  barbarism  of  his  age. 


§3. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  Shakspere  came  ; 
the  good  Genius  who  brought  health  and  truth,  and 
light  and  life,  into  the  English  drama;  who  extended 
its  limits  to  the  extremity  of  the  earth,  nay,  into  the  air 
itself;  and  peopled  the  regions  which  he  traversed, 
with  beings  of  every  shape,  and  hue,  and  quality,  that 
experience  or  the  imagination  of  a  great  poet  could 
suggest. 

The  benefits  which  Shakspere  bestowed  upon  the 
stage  may  possibly  be  readily  admitted,  although  the 
precise  nature  of  those  benefits  must,  by  most  readers, 
be  taken  upon  trust.  But  the  full  importance  of  his 
writings  to  the  land  he  lived  in  will  never,  perhaps, 
be  generally  understood.  Their  effect  can  scarcely 
be  exaggerated.  The  national  intellect  is  continually 
recurring  to  them  for  renovation  and  increase  of  power: 

'  As  to  their  fountain,  other  stars 
Repairing,  in  iheir  golden  urns  draw  light.' 

They  are  a  perpetual  preservative  against  false  taste 
and  false  notions.  Their  great  author  is  the  true  re- 
former. He  stands  midway  between  the  proud  aristoc- 
racy of  rank  and  wealth,  and  that  *  fierce  democratic ' 
which  would  overwhelm  all  things  in  its  whirl ;  a  true 
philosopher ;  a  magician  more  potent  than  his  own 
Prospero,  and  never  otherwise  than  beneficent  and 
wise. 


32  MEMOIR  AND   ESSAY   ON 

There  is  no  part  of  the  drama  which  he  did  not 
amend.  Until  his  time  (for  Marlowe's  tragedy  is 
merely  speckled  and  bespotted  by  vulgar  farce)  the 
grave  and  the  comic  wore  never  permitted  to  unite. 
Tragedy  was  barred  out  from  Comedy  by  some  tradi- 
tional law.  The  picture  presented  was  either  gloomy 
and  without  relief,  or  it  was  trivial  and  jocose,  wanting 
in  depth  and  stability.  The  true  aspect  of  human 
nature,  therefore,  which  is  various  and  always  chang- 
ing, had  never  been  seen  upon  the  stage.  Instead 
thereof,  a  mask,  hideous  or  grotesque,  as  the  case 
might  be,  but  always  inflexible,  was  exhibited  for  our 
edification  or  amusement ;  and  we  were  taught  to  laugh 
only  with  people  who  could  never  be  serious,  or  to 
sympathize  with  heroes  to  whom  it  would  be  deroga- 
tory to  smile.  This  defect,  a  defect  under  which  the 
great  Athenian  dramas  labor,  Shakspere  remedied; 
not  by  engrafting  temporary  jests  or  fleeting  fashions 
upon  the  enduring  form  of  tragedy,  but  by  blending 
and  interweaving  humoi"s  which  are  common  to  all  men, 
with  the  passions  that  are  also  common  to  all.  The 
humors  and  jealousies,  and  vanities  of  Illyria,  of  Egypt, 
of  Greece,  of  Rome,  of  the  Isle  of  Prosper,  of  the 
Forest  of  Arden,  —  are  they  not  such  as  we  encounter 
in  England  every  day  } 

The  quality  of  Shakspere's  mind  was  precisely  such 
as  is  required  to  form  a  great  dramatist;  for  he  was 
not  only  absolutely  free  from  egotism  and  vanity,  but, 
joined  to  an  intellect  of  the  very  first  order,  he  pos- 
sessed an  aflfection  or  sympathy  that  embraced  all 
things. 

No  vain  man,  and,  as  I  believe,  no  bad  man,  can 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPEEE.  33 

ever  become  a  great  dramatist.  First,  throughout  the 
entire  play  he  must  altogether  forget  himself.  His 
characters  must  have  no  taint  or  touch  of  his  own 
peculiar  opinions.  He  must  forgot  his  own  humors ; 
he  must  forbear  to  manifest  his  own  weakness  ;  he 
must  banish  his  own  sentiments  on  every  subject 
within  the  range  of  the  play.  He  must  understand 
exactly  how  nature  operates  on  every  constitution  of 
mind,  and  under  every  accident ;  and  let  his  dramatis 
persona  speak  and  act  accordingly.  And,  secondly, 
he  must  have  a  heart  capable  of  sympathizing  with  all; 
with  the  hero  and  the  coward ;  with  the  jealous  man 
and  the  ambitious  man  ;  the  lover  and  the  despiser  of 
love ;  with  the  Roman  matron,  the  budding  Italian  girl, 
the  tender  and  constant  English  wife  ;  with  people  of  all 
ranks,  and  ages,  and  humors,  however  widely  they  may 
differ  from  himself.  It  has  been  said  that  this  power  of 
depicting  and  appearing  to  sympathize  with  every  pas- 
sion, is,  in  fact,  part  of  the  intellect  itself.  If  so,  it  has 
surely  its  source  in  the  affections.  And,  indeed,  I  have 
always  thought  that  a  large  portion  of  what  we  know  and 
what  we  are  apt  to  ascribe  solely  to  observation,  is  in 
effect  derived  through  the  heart.  The  thousand  little 
weaknesses,  and  troubles,  and  fluctuations,  which  the 
dramatic  writer  lays  be  fore  us,  are  learned  in  great  part 
from  his  own  nature.  It  is  the  sympathy  he  feels  for 
the  character  he  creates,  as  well  as  the  knowledge  that 
he  gains  from  the  observation  of  such  character,  that 
enables  him  to  paint  human  nature  truly.  No  scrutiny, 
however  minute  or  extended,  and  no  power  oi  mere 
intellect  (meaning  thereby  reasoning  only,  or  the  ima- 
gination so  far  as  it  rests  upon  reason),  could  enable 

▼OL.  I.  3 


34  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

any  author  to  detect  the  many  little  processes  of  the 
mind,  the  traits  of  humor  and  the  affections,  which  Shak- 
spere  has  set  forth.  It  is  certain  that,  till  his  time,  no 
man  ever  knew  or  could  learn  so  much  of  the  various 
good  qualities  and  infirmities  of  human  nature,  as  one 
may  now  learn  from  the  mere  study  of  his  plays.  No 
writer  before  his  time  ever  mingled  and  made  common 
cause,  as  it  were,  with  people  of  all  conditions.  He 
was  *  one  of  the  many.'  He  did  not  set  himself  above 
the  herd,  and  deal  out  oracular  maxims  and  apothegms; 
but  allowed  and  prompted  every  one  to  speak  as  Nature 
dictated.  In  a  word,  he  evidently  sympathized  with  all 
men ;  and,  showing  this,  he  begat  sympathy  in  his 
hearers.  It  is  not  the  display  of  intellect  on  abstract 
subjects,  nor  the  moral  dogma,  nor  sententious  wisdom 
in  any  shape,  nor  even  the  cunning  analysis  of  char- 
acter, so  much  as  the  power  of  attracting  the  sympathy 
of  an  audience,  that  commands  success. 

The  judgment  of  Shakspere  was  on  a  level  with  his 
intellect.  There  is  no  dramatist  who  approaches  him 
in  this  respect.  Ben  Jonson,  one  of  the  most  scientific 
of  designers,  is  far  below  him  in  all  that  relates  to  the 
more  important  parts  and  real  constitution  of  a  play. 
The  conduct  of  his  plots  is  generally  admirable,  and 
the  conduct  of  his  dramatis  personcB  absolutely  fault- 
less. There  is  no  playing  at  cross  purposes,  no  confu- 
sion. Everything  is  in  due  order,  in  due  subordination. 
There  are  many  voices,  but  they  are  '  matched  in 
mouth  like  bells,'  each  under  each.  In  the  construction 
of  a  drama,  the  dovetailing  of  the  scenes,  or  even  the 
probability  of  the  story,  is  not  of  the  highest  moment. 
It  is  the  entire  harmony  of  the  play,  its  completeness 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  35 

within  itself  (the  story  or  premises  being  admitted), 
that  constitutes  its  main  charm  and  merit :  it  is,  in  fact, 
the  relation  which  one  character  bears  to  another;  the 
due  blending  of  thoughts  and  incidents;  one  voice 
answering  to  another ;  one  thought  or  event  following 
another,  like  the  consequence  the  cause  ;  no  object 
standing  out,  staring  without  meaning,  disjointed,  unal- 
lied  to  the  rest ;  but  all  rounded  off,  classed,  arranged  : 
the  light  deepening  into  shadow,  the  darkness  gradually 
emerging  into  light. 


§4. 

In  regard  to  the  characters  drawn  by  Shakspere,  I  do 
not  recollect  one  in  his  undoubted  dramas,  that  is  not 
at  once  true,  consistent,  and  complete.  Our  great  poet 
never  squares  or  clips  a  character  to  suit  any  precon- 
ceived theory ;  but  permits  each  to  do  his  best  (or 
worst)  as  nature  or  education  may  inspire.  '  Accom- 
modate,' he  says,  *  is  a  good  word; '  but  to  accommodate 
or  remould  nature  in  order  to  fit  a  theory  or  demonstrate 
a  problem,  is  a  sacrifice  of  truth  to  conjecture ;  and 
Shakspere  in  essentials  never  sacrificed  truth.  Fault 
has  been  found  with  the  construction  of  some  of  his 
plays  —  as  with  the  *  Winter's  Tale,'  for  instance,  or 
the  fairy  dramas  —  for  doing  violence  to  probability  or 
the  unities ;  but  let  the  characters  upon  whom  he  has 
set  his  stamp  once  appear,  and  I  defy  the  critic  not  to 
admit  that  every  one  is  wrought  out  of  the  true  metal. 
Not  one  of  them  is  a  mask,  or  a  voice,  or  a  chorus ; 
but  a  man  complete.  The  words  he  utters  belong  to 
himself,  andj  to   no   one   besides.     Even  the   change 


36  MEMOIR   AND    ESSAY    ON 

which  we  observe  to  take  place  in  some  of  his  dramatic 
personages,  is  one  of  the  strongest  proofs  of  their  com- 
pleteness and  truth.  That  fluctuation  which  to  an 
ordinary  writer  might  seem  to  be  a  deviation  from 
character,  he  knew  to  be  one  of  its  constituent  parts  : 
for  the  condition  of  man  is  complex  and  various.  He 
is  not  built  up  by  nature  as  a  case  or  sounding-board 
for  one  particular  note,  grave  or  sharp ;  but  for  the 
whole  diapason.  To  draw  a  character  who  shall  stand 
up  as  the  stiff  representative  of  a  single  virtue,  is  to 
betray  a  woful  ignorance  of  humanity.  The  virtues, 
as  well  as  the  vices,  of  man  never  come  singly,  but  in 
troops.  They  abide  with  us,  perhaps,  but  they  are  not 
rigid  or  inflexible.  On  the  contrary,  they  change  and 
are  modified  by  many  causes.  The  brave  man  of 
to-day  may,  like  Macbeth,  be  a  coward  to-morrow ; 
and  the  nerves  of  a  Richard,  who  was  yesterday  fore- 
most in  the  battle,  may  to-day  be  shaken  by  a  dream. 
In  the  mechanical  drama  (so  to  speak)  —  in  that 
which  is  formed  without  flexibility  or  variety  in  the 
characters  or  verse,  like  some  of  the  French  tragedies 
—  there  is  a  regular  progress  of  puppets  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end ;  the  same  voice  of  the  same  ven- 
triloquist guiding  them  on,  without  fluctuation  or  pause. 
Nothing  disturbs  the  monotony  and  weariness  of  the 
scene  ;  nothing  elevates  or  depresses  the  dialogue, 
which  is  always  in  alt.  One  personage  is  a  tyrant, 
another  a  lover,  a  third  a  warrior,  a  fourth  a  friend ; 
and  each  delivers  himself  duly  of  the  maxims  which 
belong  to  the  virtue  or  passion  which  he  is  thus  engaged 
to  represent.  They  are  all,  in  short,  abstractions,  and 
not  men.    Now,  Shakspere's  characters  are  not  abstrac- 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPEKE.  OT 

tions,  nor  are  they  mere  sections  of  character.  They 
tire  entire  and  complete.  Neither  are  they  mere 
characters  standing  alone  or  aloof.  Each  shows  the 
relation  he  bears  to  others,  and  how  he  is  operated  upon 
by  them.  So  Coriolanus,  Macbeth,  and  Othello,  exhibit 
the  different  phases  of  their  character,  according  to  the 
light  cast  upon  them  by  the  presence  of  other  persons, 
or  by  the  predominating  passion  of  the  scene.  Yet 
the  physical  courage  and  moral  weakness  of  Macbeth, 
the  fierce  pride  and  relenting  affection  of  Coriolanus, 
the  calm  command  and  stormy  turbulence  of  Othello, 
are  qualities  naturally  linked  to  each  other,  and 
harmonize  with  each  other :  as  the  different  events  of 
human  life  are  connected  and  reconciled  by  various 
influences ;  by  time  or  age,  the  ingratitude  of  children, 
the  depression  of  fortune,  or  other  causes.  Sometimes, 
the  greater  passions  are  more  completely  developed 
^d  made  manifest  by  the  introduction  of  trivial  objects. 
^d  this,  which  perhaps  originated  in  the  wide  sympathy 
of  Shakspere  for  all  men,  teaching  him  to  despise  none, 
is  at  once  evidence  of  his  supreme  skill.  Observe 
how  the  brutality  of  Caliban,  and  the  drunken  fooleriefi 
of  Trinculo  and  Stephano,  throw  out  in  grand  relief  the 
grave  majesty  of  Prospero,  and  contrast  with  the  fresh 
simplicity  of  Miranda.  So  the  stilted  verse  of  the 
Players  gives  value  to  the  natural  words  of  Hamlet; 
and  the  fripperies  of  Osrick  are  eflTective  as  a  prologue 
to  the  tragic  duel.  The  loose  lachimo  and  vulga^r 
Cloten  make  us  look  with  double  respect  on  the  chaste 
and  lonely  Imogen ;  and  the  idiotic  merriment  of  the 
Fool  (strangely  weighted  and  kept  down  by  a  sort  of 
instinctive  wisdom  or  shrewdness)  brings  out  the  mad- 


38  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

ness  and  sublimity  of  Lear ;  acting,  by  contrast,  like  a 
little  light,  which  develops  the  darkness  of  the  region 
around. 

How  Shakspere  arrived  at  his  conclusions,  and 
mastered  the  difficulties  of  character,  is  a  subject  that 
has  not  yet  been  fathomed.  Perhaps  he  could  not 
himself  have  explained  it  so  as  to  make  it  intelligible  to 
all.  Was  it  intuition,  experience,  or  meditation,  that 
led  to  those  happy  creations  which  no  one  has  equalled  ? 
He  painted,  seemingly,  partly  from  individual  nature, 
but  not  wholly.  His  characters  are  not  copies  of 
particular  men  or  women,  for  they  have  the  general 
qualities  which  belong  to  their  class.  Neither  are  they 
abstractions  (as  we  have  said)  of  any  vice  or  virtue, 
for  they  sometimes  abound  with  humors  and  infirmities 
not  often  found  in  company  with  it.  Perhaps  he  may 
have  sketched  from  persons  whom  he  had  seen,  and 
made  up  what  seemed  to  be  wanting  in  them,  or  rather 
what  he  had  had  no  opportunity  of  discovering,  out  of 
his  knowledge  of  what  belonged  to  human  nature ;  or 
he  illustrated  certain  qualities  of  the  mind  which  are 
usually  or  frequently  found  together,  after  studying 
instances  of  individual  nature. 

If  Shakspere  ever  selected  a  single  passion  as  the 
subject  for  tragedy  (which  I  doubt),  he  at  least  qualified 
it,  and  forced  it  to  bend  to  circumstances,  to  tempera- 
ment, to  education,  or  other  antagonist  causes.  More- 
over, he  surrounded  its  representative  with  personages 
of  a  different  order,  opposite  or  subordinate ;  and  by 
these  means  relieved  his  drama  from  the  bareness  and 
monotony  which  would  otherwise  have  been  inevitable. 
Thus,  Othello   is   not   simply  a  jealous   man,  nor   is 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  39 

Macbeth  merely  ambitious.  The  first  is  predisposed 
for  his  fate  by  his  tropical  birth  and  his  martial  calling ; 
the  other  is  by  nature  easy,  speculative,  and  infirm. 
In  each  case,  the  master-passion  is  not  in  the  com- 
mencement obvious.  It  is  dormant,  but  capable  of 
being  awakened  into  a  povi^er  that  becomes  resistless. 

The  error  of  some  writers  of  fiction  has  been  that 
they  have  taken  a  cardinal  vice,  and  severing  it  from 
all  qualities  that  might  have  attended  it,  have  left  it 
single  and  unsupported,  the  sole  end  and  object  of  the 
play.  Others  have  smoothed  down  the  inequalities  of 
character,  for  the  sake  of  a  noble  outline.  Sometimes 
the  historian  has  led  the  way,  and  the  dramatist  has 
slavishly  followed  him.  Such  authors  have  seen  nature 
through  books.  Instead  of  this,  they  should  have  looked 
directly  at  man  himself,  examined  him,  and  studied 
him,  as  they  would  a  wonder  never  yet  sufficiently 
known.  It  is  quite  clear,  that  no  one  can  ever  become 
a  great  dramatist  who  shall  take  the  world  *  upon  trust.' 

As  bearing  upon  this  part  of  the  subject,  I  may  be 
excused  for  devoting  a  paragraph  to  the  question  of 
'  the  learning  of  Shakspere.'  Several  writers  have 
perplexed  themselves  and  their  readers  in  endeavoring 
to  ascertain  the  amount  of  Shakspere's  learning.  In 
itself,  it  is  a  matter  inexpressibly  unimportant.  It  is  of 
no  importance  to  us,  or  to  his  own  fame.  Could  the 
precise  amount  of  his  learning  be  weighed  out  in  critical 
scales  (a  thing  quite  impossible),  it  would  neither 
diminish  nor  add  to  his  merit.  He  must  rest  content, 
crowned  with  bays,  instead  of  the  doctor's  cap. 

It  is  possible,  I  think,  that  a  man  may  be  encumbered 
by  too  much  learning  :    not  that  he  is  likely  to  know 


40  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY    ON 

too  much  either  of  a  language  or  a  people ;  but  that, 
together  with  the  advantages  which  accompany  learning, 
there  present  themselves  too  many  models  for  imitation. 
One  cannot  read  Homer,  without  admiring  his  grand 
and  masculine  style ;  nor  Dante,  without  being  im- 
pressed by  that  deep,  glowing,  intense  earnestness 
which  carried  him  on  to  the  end  of  his  extraordinary 
task.  It  is  necessary  to  the  performance  of  an  original 
work  that  a  man  should  be  thrown  upon  his  own 
resources ;  that  he  should  not  be  beset  by  the  tempta- 
tion of  following  in  the  track  of  others,  whom  he  cannot 
but  admire,  and  whom  it  is  so  much  easier  to  imitate 
than  surpass.  The  indolence  of  human  nature  is 
sometimes  found  allied  to  its  ambition ;  and  the  man 
who  desires  fame,  or  wealth,  or  power,  however  he 
may  possess  the  active  principle,  sufficient  to  succeed 
in  any  case,  is  yet  ready  enough  to  accomplish  his 
end  with  as  little  expense  of  thought  or  labor  as  he 
can. 

It  is,  I  believe,  this  misfortune  (namely,  the  multitude 
of  models),  that  impedes  the  advancement  of  modern 
painters.  They  are  oppressed  and  bewildered  by  the 
abundance  and  magnificence  of  the  Italian  schools. 
They  stumble  over  the  statues  of  antiquity,  when  they 
should  be  taking  their  way  apart,  and  seeking  the  true 
road  to  the  summit  of  the  hill  of  Fame.  Some  of  the 
works  of  the  Carracci,  of  Dominichino,  and  Guido,  are 
wonderful  for  color  and  effect.  Yet  they  always  force 
upon  us  the  conviction  that  they  would  not  have  been 
what  they  were,  but  for  the  excellence  of  preceding 
painters.     They  w^ould  have  been  worse  or  better. 

Luckily  for  Shakspere,  although  he  had  some  pre- 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  41 

decessors  in  the  drama,  there  was  no  one  sufficiently 
great  to  induce  him  to  follow  in  his  track.  His  early 
and  casual  imitations  of  Marlowe  were  soon  abandoned. 
This  was  to  be  expected ;  for  every  poet  has,  1  imagine, 
begun  his  career  by  being  in  some  degree  an  imitator. 
The  scale  and  alphabet  of  his  art  being  already 
existing,  he  consults  and  uses  them  for  a  short  time  ; 
casting  them  away  as  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
power  becomes  better  known.  Thus  Shakspere's 
genius  speedily  rose  above  all  aids  and  entanglements, 
and  showed  itself,  strong,  original,  and  triumphant.  It 
enabled  him  to  look  down  upon  the  Roman  times,  and 
upon  the  age  of  the  Plantagenets,  as  from  a  pinnacle. 
He  did  not  become,  as  the  more  learned  Jonson  did,  a 
transcriber  from  Cicero  or  the  Latin  classics;  but, 
adopting  all  that  was  valuable  in  historians  and  orators, 
he  passed  beyond  them,  and  surveyed  the  whole 
Roman  people,  from  the  wars  of  Coriolanus  to  the  fall 
of  the  triumvir,  Antony,  like  one  who  had  the  world  at 
his  feet,  and  who  set  down  what  he  saw  before  him, 
and  not  what  he  had  read  translated  in  books. 


§5. 

The  plays  of  Shakspere  appear  to  divide  themselves 
into  certain  classes,  viz.,  the  Historical  Plays  (compris- 
ing therein  the  English  and  Roman  histories,  and  also 
*  Troilus  and  Cressida,'  which  is  allied  to  history)  ; 
the  Comedies,  and  the  Tragedies ;  to  which  perhaps, 
may  be  added  a  miscellaneous  class,  consisting  of  those 
dramas  which  are   founded  on   fairy  mythology,   and 


42  MEMOIR   AND    ESSAY    ON 

those  in  which  neither  tragedy  nor  comedy  can  be  said 
to  prevail. 

In  the  Historical  Plays,  one  is  first  struck  by  the 
fidelity  which  Shakspere  has  displayed  throughout  all 
the  scenes  (many  of  them  necessarily  fictitious)  which 
constitute  and  complete  the  story,  and  the  skill  with 
which  he  has  disposed  and  managed  a  crowd  of 
characters.  The  Roman  dramas  seem  to  us  even 
more  real  than  the  English  ;  but  this  arises  from  the 
circumstance  of  the  former  being  founded  on  events 
which  happened  in  more  remote  times,  thus  preventing 
us  from  comparing,  with  the  same  severity,  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  the  personages  of  the  play  with  the 
manners  of  actual  life.  Of  all  these  plays,  '  Antony 
AND  Cleopatra  '  appears  to  me  to  stand  the  first. 
For  variety  of  character,  for  grandeur  of  thought,  for 
pathos,  and  tragic  situation,  and  for  all  the  '  pride, 
pomp,  and  circumstance,'  which  give  effect  to  the 
stage,  this  may  challenge  comparison  with  any  other 
drama.  All  is  in  the  '  high  Roman  fashion  '  —  in  the 
most  magnificent  style  of  tragedy.  Hazlitt  has  said 
finely  and  characteristically  (when  speaking  of  it),  that 
Shakspere's  genius  has  spread  over  the  whole  play  a 
richness  like  the  overflowing  of  the  Nile.'  Amongst 
the  English  historical  plays,  '  Richard  the  Third  ' 
exhibits  the  most  intellectual  and  commanding  charac- 
ter, although  it  has  less  variety  than  some  others,  and 
comprises  few  sentences  of  great  poetical  interest. 

The  Comedies  are  not  mere  comedies  of  manners, 
which  are  fleeting,  but  transcripts  of  humors,  which  are 
lasting  and  belong  to  human  life.  Foremost  of  these, 
must  be  placed  the  two  parts  of '  Henry  the  Fourth,' 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  43 

in  which,  however,  there  is  an  admixture  of  the  heroic. 
It  is  only  necessary  to  refer  to  these  matchless  pro- 
ductions, to  show  the  abundance  that  Shakspere  has 
poured  into  them.  In  the  '  Second  Part '  there  are  not 
less  than  twenty  characters,  all  clearly  marked  out, 
and  kept  entire  and  distinct  throughout  the  play.  It  is 
impossible  to  confound  one  with  another.  The  wit  of 
FalstafF(the  most  remarkable  comic  creation  on  record) 
illustrates  both  plays ;  whilst  the  chivalrous  characters 
of  Hotspur  and  Glendower,  the  gravity  of  Henry,  the 
alternate  compunction  and  levity  of  his  son,  and  the 
whole  bustle  and  incident  of  the  story,  render  it,  to  all 
classes  of  auditors,  a  performance  at  all  times  full  of 
interest. 

There  is  no  space  here  to  go  through  the  tragic  and 
comic  plays  seriatim,  and  show  their  manifold  wonders. 
They  are  each  beyond  rivalry  in  their  way  :  although 
the  tragedy  is  superior  to  the  comedy,  by  so  much  as 
that  which  is  serious  is  superior  to  that  which  is  jocose. 
This  has  been  already  insisted  upon  by  other  writers. 

But  let  us  not  forget  the  fairy  dramas.  The 
'Tempest'  and  the  'Midsummer  Night's  Dream' 
deserve  a  better  defender  than  I  can  hope  to  be.  The 
supernatural  machinery  which  Shakspere  has  adopted 
in  these  and  other  plays  has  been  decried,  as  being 
little  better  than  that  of  nursery  fables.  This,  as  it 
appears  to  me,  is  mistaking  the  quality  and  object  of  a 
play.  The  supernatural  is  a  legitimate  portion  of  the 
drama.  It  is  as  much  so  as  any  circumstance  which 
we  are  apt  to  call  improbable  or  unnatural,  but  which 
in  every  instance  has  been  outdone  by  facts.  All 
depends  on  the  mode  of  introducing  the  supernatural, 


44  MEMOIR  AND    ESSAY    ON 

and  on  the  use  made  of  it  by  the  poet.  \\'hatever 
affects  the  imagination,  and  excites  the  sympathies  of 
an  audience,  may  be  pronounced  fit  for  the  stage.  It 
is  only  when  the  childish  and  ignorant  are  wrought 
upon,  leaving  the  mature  mind  unaffected,  that  the 
supernatuml  becomes  absurd.  It  is,  in  short,  the 
quantity  of  intellect  thrown  into  fictions  of  this  order, 
which  determines  their  general  fitness  to  appear  before 
the  world.  Taking  into  consideration  the  mechanism 
and  general  exterior  of  a  represented  play,  all  plays 
commence  as  improbabilities.  No  one  begins  by  being 
deluded.  He  knows  at  the  outset  that  a  wooden  stage 
is  before  him,  and  that  actors  are  about  to  represent 
a  fiction.  But  if,  with  this  indispensable  disadvantage, 
the  poet  succeeds  in  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the 
spectator,  and  makes  him  for  awhile  forget  the  humble 
appliances  of  his  art,  then  the  drama  may  be  said  to 
be  triumphant.  In  reference  to  this  subject,  it  should 
pot  be  forgotten  that  many  characters  and  effects  have 
been  brought  upon  the  stage,  which  certainly  never 
had  any  existence  in  the  history  of  human  affairs. 
These  are  as  essentially  opposed  to  fact  as  the  fairies 
and  ghosts  of  Shakspere  ;  and  yet  we  do  not  object  to 
them,  because  we  say  that  they  are  '  natural.'  But,  are 
not  Titania  and  Oberon  natural .''  Is  not  Ariel  natural  ? 
Is  nor  Caliban  natural  ?  nay,  is  he  not  a  thousand  times 
more  natural  and  more  impressive  than  the  pompous 
perfections  and  inflated  heroes  of  the  French  stage  .? 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  classify  the  merits  of  Shak- 
spere's  tragedies  ;  but,  as  a  comparison  has  frequently 
been  instituted  between  the  four  great  tragedies,  *  Mac- 
beth,'  '  Hamlet,'    *  Othello,'   and   '  Lear,'    I   may 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  45 

venture  to  recur  to  them.  In  '  Macbeth,'  it  is  said, 
there  is  an  unity  of  interest,  a  rapidity  of  event,  and  a 
combination  of  the  human  and  supernatural,  that  place 
it  the  first,  in  these  respects,  in  point  of  excellence. 
'  Lear'  is  more  sublime,  I  think,  all  human  and  pas- 
sionate as  it  is,  and  has  meanings  more  profound  than 
the  other,  and  exhibits  greater  variety  and  contrast  of 
character.  'Hamlet'  beyond  the  rest  developes  and 
lays  bare  the  innermost  thoughts  and  workings  of  a 
single  mind.  But,  to  my  thinking,  '  Othello'  is  the 
most  substantial  and  complete  of  all  his  plays.  Less 
refined  than  '  Hamlet,'  less  imaginative  than  *  Mac- 
beth,' and  less  terrible  and  impressive  than  *  Lear,'  it 
is,  for  variety  and  development  of  character,  more 
complete  than  the  others.  'Macbeth'  is  chiefly  a 
tragedy  of  events.  There  are  no  characters,  except 
those  of  Macbeth  and  his  awful  wife.  Macbeth  himself, 
indeed,  is  an  entire  biography;  and  the  'Lady'  is 
grandly  drawn :  but  otherwise  the  play  (with  deep 
respect  be  it  said)  is  meagre  in  character.  '  Lear'  — 
in  which  we  are  whirled  about  by  the  passion  of  the 
scene,  as  the  old  discrowned  heart-broken  king  is  by 
the  fury  of  the  elements,  is  more  loosely  hung  together 
than  '  Othello  ; '  and  Hamlet,  who  at  first  sight  ap- 
pears to  be  more  thoroughly  portrayed  than  any  other 
personage  of  the  stage,  will  be  found,  I  think,  to 
exhibit  his  own  thoughts,  chiefly  on  abstract  and  indif- 
ferent subjects,  rather  than  to  develope  his  character; 
always  the  main  object  in  dramatic  fiction.  In  '  Othel- 
lo,' on  the  other  hand,  there  are  seven  characters 
completely  and  thoroughly  distinguished.  There  are 
Brabantio  (the  model  of  Priuli),  Cassio,  Roderigo,  laga, 


4S  MEMOIR   AND    ESSAY    ON 

Emilia,  Desdemona,  'the  gentle  lady  married  to  the 
Moor,'  and  finally  Othello,  the  Moor,  himself;  and  to 
these  must  be  superadded  the  most  absorbing  human  in- 
terest, remarkable  variety  in  the  characters,  and  the  most 
compact  and  natural  story  of  any  within  the  compass  of 
the  English  drama.  Shakspere  has  drawn  the  Moor  with 
great  magnanimity.  He  has  disdained  the  ordinary  notes 
of  preparation,  and  has  gone  at  once  to  the  main  purpose 
of  the  play.  At  first  view,  nothing  appears  more  un- 
skilful and  hopeless  than  to  attempt  to  extract  great 
interest  from  Othello.  The  qualities  of  the  Moor  seem 
precisely  those  which  are  opposed  to  the  results  which 
are  afterwards  so  clearly  derived  from  them.  What  is  to 
be  done  with  a  man  of  extreme  simplicity  ?  one  who  is 
brave,  honest,  tranquil,  generous,  confiding,  free  from 
jealousy,  ('not  easily  jealous'),  and  little  else?  one 
whose  perilous  paths  and  romantic  adventures  are  already 
traversed  >  The  period  of  his  wooing  (always  a  great 
refuge  for  the  dramatist)  is  over,  and  he  comes  quietly 
before  us,  without  any  obvious  impediment  in  his  way, 
from  which  we  can  foresee  a  tragic  result.  He  has 
been  moderate  in  his  attachment;  and  his  love,  crowned 
with  success,  is  a  principle  rather  than  a  sentiment.  It 
is  a  manifestation  of  his  opinion,  the  assent  of  his  mind 
to  the  high  deserts  of  his  bride,  and  not  a  humor,  the 
quality  of  which  is  determined  by  the  ebb  or  flow  of 
his  blood.  He  loved  Desdemona,  not  for  her  beauty, 
but  for  her  gentleness,  her  pity,  her  virtues.  She  felt 
compassion  for  his  toils  and  dangers ;  and  he  '  loved 
her  that  she  did  pity  them.'  His  love  accordingly  is 
not  like  common  love,  which  is  a  wilful  passion,  sub- 
ject  to   all   '  the  skiey  influences,'    but   is  a  tranquil, 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  47 

contented  affection.  Apparently,  it  is  quite  secure ; 
sheltered,  by  his  own  nature  and  her  truth,  from  all 
accidents.  But  wait !  there  is  still  one  point  from  which 
it  is  assailable  ;  and  there  Shakspere,  in  his  penetration, 
has  struck.  He  sees  the  seeds  of  trouble  in  Othello ; 
the  '  color  burned  upon  him.'  He  sees  that  his  tran- 
quillity arises  not  from  temperament  but  education. 
He  has  been  transplanted  into  the  camp,  and  tamed, 
ever  since  he  was  seven  years  old  — 

'(Since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith),' 

by  the  habits  of  military  obedience.  But  he  is  still  the 
son  of  a  burning  soil.  The  Moor,  indeed,  is  a  person 
of  great  energy ;  not  showing  itself  in  impetuous  sallies, 
but  in  the  grave  and  decisive  conduct  of  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  command.  It  is  only  when  he  quits  this 
character,  and  loses  all  self-control,  that  his  African 
blood  boils  over  and  consumes  him.  It  is  then  that  his 
passions  rise  up  in  rebellion  against  him.  He  has  lost, 
as  he  imagines,  not  a  phantasm,  conceived  in  imagina- 
tion or  a  dream,  but  a  wife  unequalled,  on  whom  his 
soul  was  set,  and  whom  his  deliberate  judgment  entirely 
approved.  His  admiration  was  not  a  fancy  but  a  con- 
viction, resting  upon  the  intrinsic  worth  of  her  he  loved. 
All,  therefore  —  affection,  judgment,  the  grave  opinion 
of  a  cautious  mind,  the  hopes  and  habits  of  a  life  now 
settled  down  into  happiness,  —  are  torn  up  by  the  roots 
and  overset.  We  behold  his  mind  utterly  wrecked ; 
and  the  spirit,  which  frctfulness  and  impatience  never 
weakened,  now  rages  without  check,  and  uncontrol- 
lable. 
One  of  the  characteristic  marks  of  Othello   is  his 


40  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

language.  Shakspere  forgot  nothing.  Othello  is  ex- 
hibited not  only  as  a  soldier,  a  tender  husband,  and  a 
jealous  man,  but  also  as  a  Moor.  As  the  drama 
proceeds,  we  see  the  Moorish  blood  running  through 
and  coloring  everything  he  uttei-s ;  as  the  red  dawn 
flows  in  upon  and  illuminates  the  eastern  sky.  His 
words  are  as  oriental  as  his  dress,  —  ample,  pictur- 
esque, and  magnificent. 

In  running  over  the  many  dramas  of  Shakspere,  a  thou- 
sand things  occur  to  me  that  appear  to  deserve  remark. 
There  are  his  love  of  external  nature,  his  graphic  pic- 
tures, his  humor,  his  sense  of  beauty,  his  appreciation 
of  colors,  of  odors  ('the  air  smells  wooingly  here'), 
of  sweet  sounds,  and  of  everything  valuable  which 
the  world  affords.  Observe  how  admirable  his  plays 
commence.  You  always  hear  the  true  note  of  pre- 
paration, —  the  key-stone  at  the  beginning.  Observe 
the  difference  between  his  men  and  women :  the  men 
embodying  the  active  principle;  the  women  (with  a  few 
exceptions,  such  as  Lady  Macbeth  and  Beatrice)  the 
passive  virtues.  The  men  are  restless  and  ambitious, 
and  cut  their  way  to  fortune  ;  the  women  seem  moulded 
to  inhabit  the  circle  in  which  they  move.  Observe  the 
difference  between  his  poetry  and  that  of  Fletcher  and 
others.  The  latter  are  poetical  in  soliloquy  or  narra- 
tion only.  They  cannot  make  their  images  bear  upon 
active  life.  But,  look  at  Shakspere  !  his  passion  springs 
out  of  the  passion  or  humor  of  the  time  : 

'  Rouse  thyself!  and  the  weak  wanton  Capid 
Shall  from  thy  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold, 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane, 
Be  shook  to  air.' 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPEEE.  49 

But  I  should  require  a  volume  were  I  to  reckon  up  his 
minuter  beauties,  or  to  attempt  to  proceed  seriatim 
through  his  plays  ;  and  I  must,  therefore,  rest  content 
with  having  said  a  few  of  the  many  things  that  press 
upon  me  for  utterance.  Saying  what  I  have  said,  I 
leave  the  rest  to  future  writers. 


§6. 

If  the  judgment  and  general  intellect  of  Shakspere 
be  great,  so  is  his  style  worthy  of  the  thoughts  which 
it  enshrines.  It  is,  beyond  comparison,  the  most  dra- 
matic style  extant.  Some  persons  have  insisted  that 
he  had  no  style,  and  have  elevated  this — which,  if  it 
existed,  would  be  a  defect  —  into  a  positive  merit.  To 
my  thinking,  the  hand  of  Shakspere  can  be  traced  more 
readily  than  that  of  any  other  dramatic  writer.  The 
style  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  or  rather  of  Fletcher, 
is  also  very  distinguishable  from  that  of  others  ;  it  is  in 
fact  so  peculiar,  that  it  degenerates  into  mannerism. 
But  though  the  style  of  Shakspere  is  his  own,  it  con- 
tains a  flexibility  or  variety  —  a  power  of  adapting  itself 
to  the  different  exigencies  of  the  drama  —  that  rescues 
it  from  mannerism  and  monotony.  With  what  incom- 
parable skill  his  verse  is  fashioned;  strong  and  firm 
without  harshness,  musical  without  weakness.  An  author 
and  critic  of  great  merit  (Mr.  Leigh  Hunt)  is  disposed 
to  prefer  the  versification  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  to 
that  of  Shakspere  ;  who,  he  thinks,  was  led  away  by 
the  attractiveness  of  Marlowe's  verse.  This  opinion  has 
been  so  ably  and  fairly  encountered  by  Mr.  George 

VOL.   I.  4 


50  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY    ON 

Darley,  in  his  preface  to  the  works  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  that  it  leaves  me  little  to  do  beyond  referring 
to  it.  I  may  be  permitted,  however,  to  observe,  that 
the  verse  of  almost  all  our  early  dramatists  was  con- 
fined to  ten  syllables;  and  that  the  verse  of  Shakspere, 
judging  by  his  undoubted  plays,  cannot  in  fact  be  said 
to  have  been  founded  on  that  of  Marlowe.  The  verse 
of  Marlowe,  like  the  verse  of  Peele,  is  wanting  in 
dramatic  fitness.  It  is  too  much  like  that  in  which 
narrative  or  epic  poetry  is  conveyed.  It  is  better,  un- 
doubtedly, than  the  verse  of  Peele,  or  of  any  other  of 
his  cotemporaries,  but  in  frequency,  and  especially  in 
variety,  of  its  pauses,  it  is  often  deficient.  If  Shak- 
spere indeed  be  (contrary  to  my  surmise)  the  author 
of  '  Titus  Anubonicus,'  it  must  be  admitted  that  he 
was,  at  the  outset  of  his  career,  an  imitator  of  the  verse 
of  Marlowe,  but  not  otherwise. 

In  addition  to  the  reasons  urged  by  Mr.  Darley 
against  the  versification  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
there  is  one  other,  namely,  that  the  use  of  double  and 
triple  endings  (which  in  fact  constitutes  their  pecu- 
liarity) has  a  tendency  to  retard  the  dialogue,  in  all 
cases  ;  and,  therefore,  should  be  very  rarely  used,  ex- 
cept in  soliloquy  or  narrative  passages.  In  those  cases, 
where  the  object  is  not  to  hurry  on  the  interest,  but  in 
fact  to  operate  as  a  relief  or  pause  from  the  excitement 
of  the  play,  these  endings  may  be  adopted  with  advan- 
tage ;  and  accordingly  we  find  that  Shakspere,  who 
knew  how  to  profit  by  all  things,  has  recourse  to  this 
species  of  verse,  in  the  soliloquies  of  Hamlet  and  other 
places.  In  those  parts  where  events  are  rapidly  pro- 
ceeding, or  where  the  carle  and  tierce  of  dialogue  is 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  51 

fiercely  going  on,  these  endings  are  abandoned  as  an 
incumbrance. 

In  point  of  fitness,  Shakspere's  style  surpasses  that 
of  all  other  writers.  Let  it  be  observed,  how  to  the 
common  people,  as  clowns,  servants,  &c.,  he  allots 
common  prosaic  speech,  differing,  however,  in  each 
case,  as  the  character  to  whom  it  is  allotted  differs  from 
others;  and  being  grave  or  humorous,  terse  or  loose, 
accordingly.  But  to  the  greater  personages  of  the 
drama  —  whether  raised  by  native  heroism  or  intellect, 
or  bom  to  a  high  condition,  he  gives  noble  and  imagi- 
native language,  always  appropriate  and  always  adapted 
to  sustain  the  purposes  of  the  play.  It  is  true  that  the 
individual  character  of  certain  historical  persons,  such 
as  Richard  the  Second  and  Henry  the  Sixth,  may  seem 
scarcely  to  justify  the  fine  poetry  which  they  sometimes 
utter,  but  it  is  the  condition  of  a  king  dethroned  that 
requires  it.  Not  that  kings  or  heroes  are  for  ever  in 
the  '  Ercles' '  vein.  Shakspere  knew  that  they  jested 
and  became  prosaic  like  other  men.  And  these  occa- 
sional descents  from  high  verse  to  familiar  words,  in 
the  same  person,  may  be  defended  on  various  grounds ; 
sometimes  by  the  quality  of  the  people  addressed, 
sometimes  by  the  circumstance  on  which  the  dialogue 
turns,  sometimes  by  the  elevation  or  tension  of  the 
character  being  lowered  or  relaxed,  in  order  to  accom- 
modate it  to  some  exigency  in  the  drama,  or  to  produce 
*some  desirable  effect. 

The  language  of  Richard  the  Third  is  that  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  bold,  practical,  and  to  the  point;  while 
that  of  Macbeth  is  speculative  and  imaginative.  Yet  both 
are  ambitious  men,  and  both  brave  men  ;  only  ambition 


52  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY    ON 

in  one  case  seems  to  advance  upon  an  infirm  and  yield- 
ing nature  and  to  excite  it,  and  in  the  other  it  is  sought 
by  a  resolute  spirit,  in  whom  the  passion  seems  to  have 
existed  from  his  birth.  The  language  of  Henry  the 
Eighth  (a  successful  tyrant)  differs  from  John,  a  tyrant 
surrounded  by  trouble.  The  lover  Romeo  differs  from 
the  lover  Troilus  :  the  capricious  Cleopatra  from  the 
wanton  Cressld  :  Thersites  from  Aperaantus  :  and  even 
Richard  the  Second  (although  both  are  kings,  both 
weak,  and  both  in  the  same  state  of  adversity)  from 
the  husband  of  Margaret  of  Anjou.  The  same  differ- 
ences might  be  shown'by  analyzing  the  characters  of 
Shakspere  separately,  and  tracing  the  gradations  and 
shades  of  language  from  the  commencement  to  the 
end  of  the  play.  In  Lear  alone,  there  is  first  the 
generous  kingly  opening ;  then  the  violent  language 
(degenerating  into  that  awful  curse)  of  a  wilful  monarch 
thwarted  in  his  humor  and  self-love  ;  then  the  bitter 
language  produced  by  ingratitude  ;  then  the  sublime 
pathos ;  then  the  babblings  and  wandering  of  mad- 
ness ;  and,  finally,  the  recurrence  of  tenderness  towards 
his  'joy,  although  the  last  not  least,'  the  true-hearted 
Cordelia,  which  immediately  precedes  his  death. 

I  have,  upon  a  former  occasion,  alluded  to  two 
distinguishing  peculiarities  in  Shakspere's  style.  One 
is  that  his  speeches,  instead  of  being  directed  or  limited, 
for  the  time,  to  one  person  or  one  subject  only,  radiate 
(so  to  speak),  or  point  on  all  sides,  dealing  with  all 
persons  present,  and  with  all  subjects  that  can  be  sup- 
posed to  influence  the  speaker.  The  other  distinction 
is,  that  the  most  subtle  and  profound  reflections  fre- 


THE   GENIUS    OF   SHAKSPERE.  53 

quently  enrich  and  are  involved  (parenthetically)  in  the 
dialogue,  without  impeding  h  ;  such  as,  in  '  Antony 
AND  Cleopatra,'  where  Antony  speaks  of 

'  Our  slippery  people 
(  Whose  love  is  never  linked  to  the  deserver, 
Till  his  deserts  be  past)  begin  to  thin  ; ' 

and,  in  '  Troilus  and  Cressida,'  where  Ulysses  says, 

'  Right  and  wrong 
(Between  whose  endless  jars  justice  resides) 
Should  lose  their  names  : ' 

and  elsewhere  in  abundance. 

Incomparison  with  that  of  Shakspere,  Ben  Jonson's 
style  is  crabbed,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  weak,  loose, 
and  disjointed,  and  Massinger's  like  that  of  a  rhetorician. 
There  is  not  in  these,  or  in  any  other  dramatic  author, 
as  far  as  I  can  recollect,  a  merit,  be  it  of  modulation  or 
language,  that  has  not  been  surpassed  over  and  over 
again  by  Shakspere. 

It  has  been  said  that  there  is  something  occult  in  the 
language  of  true  poetry :  and,  as  there  is  something 
mysterious  in  the  source  of  poetry,  it  may  be  that  there  is 
something  mysterious  and  occult  in  its  demonstrations ; 
and  that  it  is  intelligible  only,  in  its  fullest  extent,  to  per- 
sons of  an  apprehensive  or  imaginative  intellect  (so  to 
speak),  being  themselves  akin  to  poets.  Yet  perhaps, 
after  all,  it  may  be  only  the  exquisite  propriety  and 
taste  found  in  their  words  and  phrases,  that  (in  those 
parts  where  there  is  an  absence  of  any  strong  evidence 
of  imagination),  determines  the  difference  between  the 
true  poet,  and  the  mere  copyist  or  compounder  of 
verse. 


54  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY    ON 

§7. 

I  have  already  adverted  to  the  benefits  which 
Shakspere  conferred  upon  his  country ;  but  I  shall 
indulge  myself  in  a  few  words  more  upon  the  subject. 

There  have  been  three  events  in  the  literary  history 
of  England,  which,  it  is  said,  tended  beyond  others  to 
raise  the  public  mind  out  of  the  barbarism  and  igno- 
rance of  our  early  times.  These  were  the  translation 
of  the  Bible,  the  works  of  Bacon,  and  the  dramas 
of  Shakspere.  The  first,  whatever  peril  may  have 
attended  it  by  severing  the  Christian  church  into  many 
sects,  assuredly  rescued  our  predecessors  from  much 
idolatry  and  the  domination  of  an  ambitious  priesthood, 
and  gave  an  impulse  and  independence  to  thought  in 
matters  of  infinite  moment.  In  like  manner,  Bacon 
dissipated  the  clouds  which  hung  about  science,  and 
liberated  Reason  from  the  thraldom  of  precedent  and 
custom.  And,  finally,  Shakspere  arose,  like  a  sun, 
scattering  the  darkness,  and  developing  the  shape  and 
life  of  all  things ;  a  discoverer  (beyond  Cadmus  or 
Columbus)  of  all  the  varieties  of  the  human  race,  of  all 
the  good  and  evil,  and  power  and  weakness  that  belong 
to  man.  He  has  left  nothing  untouched,  from  the  king 
dividing  his  dominions,  to  the  insect  '  that  we  tread 
upon  ; '  from  the  princely  philosopher  to  the  braggart 
and  the  idiot.  His  light  has  shone  upon  all  things,  has 
penetrated  all  things,  and  drawn  from  all  things  a 
lesson  and  a  moral,  capable  of  invigorating  the  intellect 
and  expanding  the  affections  of  every  being  capable  of 
thought.  Nor  is  it  alone  by  what  this  great  writer 
teaches,  but  by  what  he  suggests,  that  we  are  to  estimate 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  55 

his  value.  It  is  one  of  the  unfailing  signs  of  a  true 
poet,  that  the  seeds  of  wisdom  which  he  strews  before 
us  should  germinate  and  bring  forth  fruit.  He  does 
not  borrow,  for  our  edification,  the  common-places 
which  have  been  familiar  to  us  from  our  cradle,  and 
which  have  ceased  to  incite  us ;  he  does  not  propound 
to  us  barren  truths  (facts)  ;  but  he  bears  us  away  to 
*  fresh  fields  '  and  '  pastures,'  fertile  as  well  as  '  neAv  ; ' 
and  amidst  the  mysteries  and  startling  objects  of  a 
strange  region,  he  leaves  us  to  profit  as  best  we 
may. 

If  Bacon  educated  the  reason,  Shakspere  educated 
the  heart ;  yet  not  alone  the  heart,  but  the  reason  also. 
He  knew  that  by  conquering  the  affections  one  great 
road  to  the  intellect  would  be  won.  Moreover,  in  letting 
loose  his  imagination,  he  liberated  at  the  same  time 
the  imaginations  of  other  men;  lifting  them,  as  it 
were,  to  his  own  height  and  point  of  vision,  and  teach- 
ing them  how  to  soar,  and  think,  and  speculate,  in  a 
manner  never  displayed  before.  He  united  the  wisdom 
of  the  historian  and  the  moralist.  To  the  subtlety  of 
a  metaphysician  he  joined  the  acuteness  of  a  writer 
on  dialectics.  He  surpassed  ^schylus  in  grandeur, 
Euripides  in  pathos,  Aristophanes  in  wit.  If  the 
dramas  of  Shakspere  were  resorted  to  as  mere  exer- 
cises of  the  intellect,  they  would  be  beyond  all  value. 
There  is  no  school  in  which  so  much,  or  things  so 
various,  may  be  taught.  There  is  in  them,  it  is  true, 
neither  Latin  nor  Greek,  neither  hexameter  nor  pen- 
tameter. We  hear  nothing  of  the  steam-engine,  nor  of 
the  north-west  passage  (although  sounds  come  to  us 
'  From  the  still  vexed  Bermoothes ') ; 


56  MEMOIR    AND    ESSAY    ON 

nothing  of  geometry  or  arithmetic,  except  that  Michael 
Cassio  was  'an  arithmetician.'  But  we  behold  the 
living  world  before  us,  teeming  with  its  hopes  and 
desires,  its  joy,  and  throes,  and  agonies  ;  the  passions 
in  all  their  forms  ;  evil  in  its  many  shapes ;  and  good 
intermixed  with  evil.  We  see  the  means  and  ends  of 
government ;  the  springs  and  effects  of  conduct ;  faction 
and  loyalty ;  slavery  and  independence  ;  confidence, 
envy,  mistrust;  all  (as  they  are  called)  the  accidents  of 
life,  mingled  and  interwoven  with  each  other,  and  form- 
ing, if  rightly  read,  a  rule  of  conduct,  a  profound 
lesson,  for  every  character  and  condition  of  life,  from 
the  beggar  up  to  the  king. 

Various  opinions  have  been  formed  as  to  the 
particular  quality  of  mind  for  which  Shakspere  wa^ 
most  eminent.  I  think,  however,  as  I  have  heretofore 
said,  that  in  all  the  cases  where  critics  have  attempted 
to  distinguish  him  by  any  one  particular  excellence  of 
intellect,  they  have  failed.  One  writer  has  brought 
forwtird  his  imagination  ;  another  his  sublimity  or 
humor  ;  whilst  Mr.  GifFord  refers  to  his  wit,  —  in  which 
he  has  surely  been  equalled.  If  I  myself  were  desired 
to  point  out  any  one  quality  as  predominant  above  the 
rest,  I  should  be  inclined  to  fix  upon  the  infinite  delicacy 
of  his  mind,  which  (with  equal  subtlety  and  judgment) 
defined  the  thousand  shades  and  varieties  of  human 
character,  —  all  that  lies  between  the  good  and  the 
bad,  the  strong  and  the  weak,  the  lofty  and  the  low ; 
or  I  might,  perhaps,  rest  on  that  marvellous  freedom 
from  egotism,  which  enabled  him  to  create  so  many 
beings  (all  with  the  true  stamp  of  humanity  upon  them) 
without   betraying  a  single   touch   of  any  humor   or 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPERE.  57 

infirmity  peculiar  to  himself.  But  I  should  do  neither. 
For  his  great  merit,  as  it  appears  to  me,  is,  that  he  had 
no  peculiar  or  prominent  merit.  His  mind  was  so  well 
constituted,  so  justly  and  admirably  balanced,  that  it 
had  nothing  in  excess.  It  was  the  harmonious  com- 
bination, the  well  adjusted  powers,  aiding  and  answering 
to  each  other  as  occasion  required,  that  produced  his 
completeness,  and  constituted,  as  I  think,  the  secret  of 
his  great  entire  intellectual  strength. 


§8. 

Something  remains  to  be  said,  touching  the  moral 
effect  of  Shakspere's  writings.  A  few  words  must 
suffice. 

The  critics,  with  illustrious  exceptions,  and  the 
sectarians  of  modern  times,  are  continually  striving  to 
exalt  authors  of  the  didactic  class  above  the  rest  of 
their  brethren,  by  the  distinguishing  title  of  '  moral 
writers.'  In  this  category  (which  includes  sometimes 
the  great  name  of  Milton),  Cowper  and  Young, 
together  with  Mr.  Pollock  and  some  other  inferior 
writers,  are  ranked ;  and  none  but  these  favored  few 
are  admitted  into  the  houses  of  the  stricter  sects.  The 
gates  of  those  un-catholic  temples  are  shut  against  the 
large  body  of  poets,  who  are  excluded  as  a  lost  or 
perilous  race.  And  yet,  between  the  (so  called)  pious 
and  profane,  the  interval  is  not  extremely  wide.  Nay, 
the  object  of  each  may  be,  and  in  fact  often  is,  the 
same.  No  healthy  poet  or  sensible  man,  I  apprehend, 
ever  meditated  a  story  with  a  view  of  deducing  from  it 
a  pernicious  moral.     Instances  have  arisen,  in  which  a 


58  MEMOIR   AND   ESSAY    ON 

book  having  a  good  and  honest  design,  has  been  marred 
in  some  degree  by  coarse  and  voluptuous  passages; 
but  these  are  comparatively  rare ;  and  after  all,  the 
parts  to  be  reprehended  must  be  taken  into  account, 
and  balanced  with  the  positive  good  which  the  works 
contain,  before  such  works  can  be  fairly  set  aside,  or 
condemned  as  injurious  to  the  general  reader.  The 
writings  of  Shakspere  himself,  however,  are  singularly 
free  from  these  objections.  There  is  occasionally  a 
coarseness  of  phrase  which  must  be  attributed  to  the 
age  in  which  he  lived:  but  he  never  tampered  with 
truth,  —  never  threw  down  the  boundaries  between  vice 
and  virtue,  —  never  strove  by  voluptuous  images  to 
excite  the  passions,  —  nor  by  fallacious  arguments  to 
ensnare  the  mind  or  confuse  the  intellect  upon  any 
subject  whatsoever. 

The  objections  to  the  greater  number  of  poets  and 
fabulists  (and  to  the  dramatists  in  particular)  lie,  I 
imagine,  not  so  much  in  their  want  of  a  good  moral,  as 
in  their  mode  of  illustrating  it,  —  not  so  much  in  the 
end,  as  in  their  means  of  arriving  at  the  end.  The 
bustling  incidents  of  a  story,  the  bright  pictures  of 
human  happiness,  the  terrible  truths  which  escape  with 
throes  out  of  our  erring  nature,  and  in  a  word  the 
passions  and  absorbing  interests  of  life,  with  whatever 
purpose  presented,  are  all  too  real  and  stimulative  to 
be  tolerated  by  any  sect  who  are  '  exclusives  '  in  their 
own  opinion,  and  in  whose  cold  creed  Charity  (in  its 
extensive  sense)  does  not  prevail.  Yet  the  beautiful 
and  touching  parables  of  Scripture  are  surely  as  holy 
and  as  pregnant  with  wisdom,  as  the  most  moral 
proverb  which  the  wisest  of  sages  has  bequeathed.     It 


THE   GENIUS    OF    SHAKSPEKE.  59 

is  well  argued  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney  —  *  Even  our 
Saviour,  Christ,  could  as  weW  have  given  the  moral 
common-places  of  uncharitableness  and  humbleness,  as 
the  divine  narration  of  Dives  and  Lazarus;  or  of  dis- 
obedience and  mercy,  as  the  heavenly  discourse  of  the 
lost  child  and  the  gracious  father ;  but  that  his  thorough- 
searching  wisdom  knew  the  estate  of  Dives  burning  in 
hell,  and  of  Lazarus  in  Abraham's  bosom,  would  more 
constantly,  as  it  were,  inhabit  both  the  memory  and 
judgment.' 

Shakspere,  like  all  other  great  imaginative  writers, 
thought  thus,  and  is  therefore  seldom  didactic.  He 
does  not  always  paint  even  the  virtues  triumphant.  It 
is  by  enlisting  our  sympathies  on  the  side  of  those  who 
are  good,  by  exciting  our  pity  for  the  injured,  and  our 
hatred  towards  the  knave  and  the  oppressor,  that  his 
moral  effects  are  produced  ;  not  by  merely  predicting 
and  insisting  on  a  moral  or  consequence,  as  necessarily 
flowing  from  certain  premises  ;  for  that  may  be  insisted 
on  and  elaborated  without  producing  any  effect  at  all. 

For  my  own  part,  1  have  no  doubt  but  that  Shakspere 
(banished  as  he  may  be  from  some  good  men's  tables) 
was  right,  —  right  in  his  philosophy,  right  in  his  exten- 
sive charity,  right  in  his  morals,  and  right  in  his  mode 
of  demonstrating  all.  Had  he  ventured  upon  any  other 
mode  than  the  one  he  has  chosen,  he  would  have 
slighted,  unwisely,  the  impulse  of  his  genius,  and  would 
not  have  effected  one-hundredth  part  of  the  good  that 
he  has  produced.  The  soundness  as  well  as  importance 
of  a  writer  may  generally  be  learned  from  the  number 
and  quality  of  his  admirers,  better  than  from  any 
labored  analysis  of  his  works,  or  any  contrast  drawn 


60  MEMOIR   AND    ESSAY    ON 

between  him  and  others.  A  man  who  is  at  the  head 
of  a  small  Sect,  is  probably  a  person  of  small  and 
eccentric  mind,  —  influencing  a  few  others,  of  a  similar 
mean  and  distorted  intellect.  But  the  founder  of  a 
Religion  must  always  be  a  mighty  Spirit.  No  one 
who  is  the  theme  of  reverence  with  a  million  intelli- 
gent minds,  but  must  have  propounded  in  his  writings 
or  doctrines  much  both  of  the  good  and  the  true. 
Throughout  the  language  in  which  he  wrote,  Shakspere 
is  all  supreme.  There  is  not  a  sceptic  or  dissentient 
whose  arguments  are  worth  refutation. 

That  our  great  author  may  be  imperfect,  as  he  is 
said  to  be,  is  merely  saying  that  he  belonged  to 
imperfect  humanity.  The  flaws  and  errors  of  his 
dramas  are  few,  however,  and  possibly  owe  their  origin 
to  interpolators ;  besides  which,  I  must  protest  against 
such  a  process  of  judging.  It  is  not  by  what  a  man 
occasionally  fails  or  omits  to  do  (for  that  may  arise 
from  hurry  or  accident)  but  by  what  he  has  done,  that 
his  capability  and  value  must  be  decided.  It  is  by  the 
profound  wisdom  of  Shakspere,  by  his  wonderful  im- 
agination, displayed  in  a  thousand  varieties  of  character, 
by  his  subtle  and  delicate  fancies,  his  grand  thoughts, 
his  boundless  charity,  —  nay,  even  by  the  music  that 
steals  into  our  souls,  with  the  countless  changes  and 
fluctuations,  from  strength  to  sweetness,  of  his  charm- 
ing verse,  that  we  must  learn  to  regard  him  truly. 
But  all  this  eulogy  would  be  superfluous,  except  for  a 
limited  class  of  thinkers  ;  for  Shakspere  is  now  making 
his  way  through  foreign  countries  and  distant  regions ; 
vanquishing  race  after  race,  like  the  great  conquerors  of 
old ;  in  spite  of  ignorance  and  prejudice,  and  imperfect 


THE    GENIUS    OF    SnAKSPEEE.  61 

teachers  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  dim  and  obscure  interpre- 
tations, that  would  check  the  progress  of  any  Spirit 
less  potent  and  catholic  than  his  own  ! 

In  the  summer  time,  when  the  world  is  cheerful  and 
full  of  life,  let  us  regale  ourselves  with  the  laughing 
scenes  and  merry  songs  of  Shakspere.  In  the  winter 
evenings,  when  sadder  thoughts  come  forth,  let  us  rest 
upon  his  grave,  philosophic  page,  and  tiy  to  gather 
comfort  as  well  as  wisdom  from  the  deep  speculations 
which  may  be  found  there.  At  all  times,  let  his  '  Book 
of  Miracles '  be  near  at  hand  :  for,  be  sure  that  the 
more  we  read  therein,  the  greater  must  our  reverence 
be.  And,  if  any  intruder  should  tell  us  that  all  we 
ponder  on  and  admire  is  mere  matter  of  imagination 
and  fancy ;  is  shadowy,  unreal,  without  profit ;  and 
that  the  end  is  —  nought :  bid  him  show  you  the  thing 
that  is  eternal,  —  or  any  effort  of  the  human  mind 
that  has  outlasted  the  dreams  of  Poetry.  Have  I  said 
that  they  are  dreams  ?  Alas  !  what  is  there  here  that 
is  so  far  beyond  a  dream  }  We  ourselves  (so  our 
great  poet  says) 

'  Are  of  such  stuff 

As  DREAMS  ARE  MADE   OF  J    AND   OUR  LITTLE  LIFE 
Is  ROCNDED  WITH   A  SLEEP  !  ' 


THE  DEATH  OF  FRIENDS. 


Death  is  the  tyrant  of  the  imagination.  His  reign 
is  in  solitude  and  darkness ;  in  tombs  and  prisons ; 
over  weak  hearts  and  seething  brains.  He  lives,  with- 
out shape  or  sound,  a  phantasm  ;  inaccessible  to  sight 
or  touch ;  a  ghastly  and  terrible  Apprehension. 

The  fear  of  death  is  common  to  all.  There  never 
was  a  man  of  such  hardihood  of  nerve,  but  he  has,  at 
one  time  or  other,  shrunk  from  pain  or  peril,  the  result 
of  which  might  be  death.  Death  is  a  certain  evil,  if 
life  be  a  good.  Despair  may  welcome  it,  and  phi- 
losophy may  affect  to  disregard  its  approach ;  but  our 
instinct,  which  is  always  true,  first  commands  us  to 
fear.  It  is  not  so  much  the  pain  of  dying,  nor  even 
the  array  of  death,  (though  the  '  pompa  mortis '  is 
sufficiently  repelling;)  but  it  is  that  vague  and  tremen- 
dous thought,  that  vast  impenetrable  gloom,  without 
epth,  or  breadth,  or  bound,  which  no  reason  can 
compass  and  no  intellect  pry  into,  that  alarms  us.  Our 
fancy  is  ripe  with  wonders,  and  it  fills  up  the  space 
between  us  and  Heaven. 


THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS.  *         63 

There  is  something  very  sad  in  the  death  of  friends. 
We  seem  to  provide  for  our  own  mortality,  and  to 
make  up  our  minds  to  die.  We  are  warned  by  sick- 
ness,—  fever,  and  ague,  and  sleepless  nights,  and  a 
hundred  dull  infirmities;  but  when  our  friends  pass 
away,  we  lament  them  as  though  we  had  considered 
them  immortal. 

It  is  wise,  I  suppose,  that  we  should  attach  ourselves 
to  things  which  are  transient;  else  it  seems  to  be  a 
perilous  trust  when  a  man  ties  his  hopes  to  so  frail 
a  thing  as  woman.  They  are  so  gentle,  so  affectionate, 
so  true  in  sorrow,  so  untired  and  untiring ;  but  the  leaf 
withers  not  sooner,  the  tropic  lights  fade  not  more 
abruptly  into  darkness.  They  die  and  are  taken  from 
us ;  and  we  weep  ;  and  our  friends  tell  us  that  it  is  not 
wise  to  grieve,  for  that  all  which  is  mortal  perisheth. 
They  do  not  know  that 

We  grieve  the  more  because  we  grieve  in  vain  ! 

If  our  grief  could  bring  back  the  dead,  it  would  be 
stormy  and  loud ;  we  should  disturb  the  sunny  quiet  of 
day ;  we  should  startle  the  dull  night  from  her  repose. 
But  our  hearts  would  not  grieve  as  they  grieve  now, 
when  hope  is  dead  within  us. 

I  remember,  even  as  a  gray-headed  man  remembers, 
clearly  and  more  distinctly  than  the  things  of  yester- 
day, that  which  happened  long  ago.  I  remember, 
when  I  was  about  four  years  of  age,  how  I  learned  to 
spell,  and  was  sent  daily  in  the  servant's  hand  to  a 
little  day-school,  to  fight  my  way  (amidst  a  score  of 
other  urchins)  through  the  perils  of  the  alphabet.  I 
had  no  ambition  then,  no  hatred,  no  uncharitableness. 


64  THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS. 

If  these  dfemons  have  possessed  me  since,  they  must 
have  been  cast  down  upon  me  by  the  '  malice  of  my 
stars,'  I  had  no  organs  for  such  things :  yet  now  I 
can  hate  almost  as  strongly  as  I  love,  and  am  as  con- 
stant to  my  antipathies  as  to  my  affections. 

Well,  when  my  fifth  was  running  into  my  sixth  year, 
and  I  was  busied  with  parables  and  Scripture  history 
(the  only  food  which  nourished  my  infant  mind),  I  was 
much  noticed  by  a  young  person,  a  female.     I  was  at 

that  time   living  with  an  old   relation  in  H shire, 

and  I  still  preserve  the  recollection  of  Miss  R 's 

tender  condescension  towards  me.  She  was  a  pretty 
delicate  girl,  and  very  amiable  ;  and  I  became  —  (yes, 
it  is  true,  for  I  remember  the  strong  feelings  of  that 
time)  —  enamored  of  her.  My  love  had  the  fire  of 
passion,  but  not  the  clay  which  drags  it  downwards;  it 
partook  of  the  innocence  of  my  years,  while  it  ethe- 
realized  me.  Whether  it  was  the  divinity  of  beauty 
that  stung  me,  or  rather  that  lifted  me  above  the  dark- 
ness and  immaturity  of  childhood,  I  know  not ;  but  my 
feelings  were  any  thing  but  childish.  By  some  strong 
intuition  I  felt  that  there  was  a  difference  (I  knew  not 
what)  that  called  forth  an  extraordinary  and  impetuous 
regard. 

She  was  the  first  object  (save  my  mother)  that  I  ever 
attached  myself  to.  I  had  better  have  loved  a  flower, 
a  weed.  For  when  I  knew  her  she  had  the  seeds  of 
death  within  her.  Consumption  had  '  caught  her ; '  his 
sickly  hand  was  upon  her,  like  the  canker  on  the  rose, 
and  drew  out  a  perilous,  unearthly  bloom.  The  hues 
and  vigor  of  life  were  flushing  too  quickly  through  her 
cheek — (yet  how  pale  she  was  at  times  !)    She  wasted 


THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS.  65 

a  month  in  an  hour  —  a  year  in  a  month;  and  at  last 
died  in  the  stormy  autumn  time,  when  the  breath  of 
summer  had  left  her. 

The  last  time  I  ever  saw  her  was  (as  well  as  I  can 
recollect)  in  October,  or  late  in  September.    I  was  told 

that  Miss  R was  ill,  was  very  ill,  and  that  perhaps 

I  might  not  see  her  again.  Death  I  could  not,  of 
course,  comprehend  ;  but  I  understood  perfectly  what 
was  a  perpetual  absence  from  my  pretty  friend. 
Whether  I  wept  or  raved,  or  how  it  was,  I  know  not; 
but  I  was  taken  to  visit  her.  It  was  a  cold  day,  and 
the  red  and  brown  leaves  were  plentiful  on  the  trees : 
and  it  was  afternoon  when  we  arrived  at  an  old- 
fashioned  country-house  (something  better  than  a  farm- 
house), which  stood  at  some  distance  from  the  high 
road.  The  sun  was  near  his  setting ;  but  the  whole  of 
the  wide  west  was  illuminated,  and  threw  crimson  and 
scarlet  colors  on  the  windows,  over  which  hung  a  cloud 
of  vine-stalks  and  changing  leaves  that  dropped  by 
scores  on  every  summons  of  the  blast.  There  she 
sate  —  in  a  parlor  full  of  flowers  (herself  the  fairest)  — 
among  China  roses  and  glittering  ice-plants,  and  myr- 
tles which  no  longer  blossomed.  She  was  sitting  (as  I 
entered)  in  a  large  arm-chair  covered  with  white,  like 
a  faded  Flora,  and  was  looking  at  the  sun :  but  she 
turned  her  bright  and  gentle  looks  on  me,  and  the  pink 
bloom  dimpled  on  her  cheek  as  she  smiled  and  bade 
me  welcome.  I  have  often  thought  of  her  since.  I 
look  on  her,  as  it  seems,  even  now  —  through  what  a 
waste  of  years !  I  see  her  cheek,  at  first  like  a  lily, 
just  tinged,  but  afterwards  deepening  into  the  brightest 
red,  from  the  agitation  perhaps  of  meeting  with  visitors. 

VOL.  X.  5 


66  THE    DEATH    OF   FRIENDS. 

The  flowers  that  were  around  looked  as  fragile  as 
herself — summer  companions.  But  the  wild  Autumn 
was  around  her  and  them,  and  the  Winter  himself  was 
coming.  He  came,  almost  before  his  time,  cold  and 
remorseless,  and  she  shrank,  and  withered,  and  died. 
The  rose-blooms  and  the  myrtles  lived  on,  a  little 
longer  ;  but  the  crimson  beauty  of  her  cheeks  faded 
for  ever. 

The  progress  from  infancy  to  boyhood  is  impercepti- 
ble. In  that  long  dawn  of  the  mind  we  take  but  little 
heed.  The  years  pass  by  us,  one  by  one,  little  dis- 
tinguishable from  each  other.  But  when  the  intellectual 
sun  of  our  life  is  risen,  we  take  due  note  of  joy  and 
sorrow.  Our  days  grow  populous  with  events ;  and 
through  our  nights  bright  trains  of  thought  run,  illumi- 
nating the  airy  future,  and  dazzling  the  days  we  live 
in.  We  have  the  unalloyed  fruition  of  hope ;  and  the 
best  is  that  the  reality  is  still  to  come. 

I  went  to  a  public  school  when  I  was  about  thirteen 
years  of  age,  and  carried  thither  a  modest  eye  and  a 
bashful  spirit.  I  was  stored  with  tales  and  fictions, 
with  the  marvels  of  travel,  many  of  them  derived  from 
an  old  relation,  a  sort  of  great  uncle,  who  had  always 
treated  me  with  kindness.  He  used  to  place  me  upon 
his  knee,  in  the  winter  evenings,  and  tell  me  stories  of 
foreign  countries,  of  Eastern  and  Western  India ;  of 
buffaloes  and  serpents;  of  the  crocodile  and  the  tawny 
lion,  and  how  he  bounded  through  the  jungles;  and 
what  the  elephant  with  his  almost  human  faculty  could 
do ;  and  how  the  shark  would  follow  ships  by  a  strange 
instinct ;  and  how  the  whale  could  spout  out  his  cata- 
racts of  water ;  and  a  hundred  other  wonders  which  I 


THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS.  67 

listened  to  with  a  greedy  air.  He  never  failed,  either 
in  his  kindness  or  his  stories,  —  at  least  towards  me. 
He  was  a  weather-beaten  man,  could  shoot,  and  hunt, 
and  in  his  youth  had  doubled  the  Cape,  and  traversed 
the  Indian  ocean. 

But  he  was  doomed  to  die.  He  had  been  ill  when  I 
last  saw  him,  in  the  Christmas  holidays;  yet  I  little 
thought  that  the  grave  was  so  near  him.  I  was  sum- 
moned home,  one  day,  to  weep  and  wear  mourning; 
and  I  went  to  the  house  of  his  widow,  where  he  lay  — 
dead.  Oh  what  a  visit  was  that !  It  haunted  me  for 
years.  The  servant  said  that  he  —  (what  '  he'  7  was  it 
the  heap  of  dust?)  —  that  he  lay  in  the  front  drawing- 
room.  I  shuddered  and  stopped ;  but  i.  was  assured 
that  he  looked  just  as  though  he  were  asleep.  Let 
no  one  believe  such  things.  There  is  nothing  so  un- 
like sleep  as  death.  It  is  a  poet's  lie.  The  one  is  a 
gracious  repose,  a  vital  calm ;  the  other  is  a  horrid 
solemnity,  no  more  like  sleep  than  a  mask  of  plaster; 
stiff,  rigid,  white  —  beyond  the  whiteness  of  shrouds  or 
the  paleness  of  stone.  All  parallels  fail :  we  strain  at 
comparisons  in  vain. 

I  went  up  to  see  my  old  friend.  There  was  silence 
all  about,  and  the  stone  steps  of  the  staircase  sent  out 
unusual  echoes.  The  door  was  opened, — slowly,  as 
though  we  should  disturb  the  corpse.  The  windows 
were  closed,  and  there  were  long  wax  candles  burning 
at  the  head  and  at  the  feet ;  and  over  all  a  white  sheet 
was  carefully  thrown.  The  length  —  the  prodigious 
length  that  the  body  seemed  to  occupy,  at  once  startled 
me,  and  I  recoiled.  But  the  servant  proceeded,  and 
uncovered  the  head  of  the  coffin.     After  an  effort  I 


68  THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS. 

looked — Ah!  would  to  God  that  I  had  never  looked. 
There  he  lay,  like  a  stone.  His  mouth  was  bound  up, 
and  his  eyelids  had  been  pressed  down,  and  his  nose 
was  pinched  as  though  by  famine.  The  white  death 
was  upon  him  —  the  rioter,  the  ruler  of  graves.  And 
my  old  friend  was  swathed  in  fine  linen,  and  pure 
crape  was  cut  and  crimped  about  him,  as  though  to 
save  him  from  the  worm  and  the  sapping  earth.  'Twas 
poor  mockery  of  his  humble  state ;  and  yet  perhaps  it 
was  meant  kindly.  Three  days  after  this  he  was  borne 
away  in  a  hearse,  and  I  let  out  my  grief  in  tears, 

I  scarcely  know  how  it  is,  but  the  deaths  of  children 
seem  to  me  always  less  premature  than  those  of  elder 
persons.  Not  that  they  are  in  fact  so ;  but  it  is  because 
they  themselves  have  little  or  no  relation  to  time  or 
maturity.  Life  seems  a  race  which  they  have  yet  to 
run  entirely.  They  have  made  no  progress  towards 
the  goal.  They  are  born,  —  nothing  further.  But  it 
seems  hard  when  a  man  has  toiled  high  up  the  steep 
hill  of  knowledge,  that  he  should  be  cast,  like  Sisyphus, 
downwards  in  a  moment :  that  he  who  has  worn  the 
day  and  wasted  the  night  in  gathering  the  gold  of 
science,  should  be  —  with  all  his  wealth  of  learning, 
all  his  accumulations  —  made  bankrupt  at  once.  What 
becomes  of  all  the  riches  of  the  soul,  the  piles  and 
pyramids  of  precious  thoughts  which  men  heap  to- 
gether ?  Where  are  Shakspere's  imagination.  Bacon's 
learning,  Galileo's  dream  ?  Where  is  the  sweet  fancy 
of  Sidney,  the  airy  spirh  of  Fletcher,  and  Milton's 
thought  severe  }  Methinks  such  things  should  not  die 
and  dissipate,  when  a  hair  can  live  for  centuries,  and 
a  brick  of  Egypt  will  last  three  thousand  years  !     I  am 


THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS.  69 

content  to  believe  that  the  muid  of  man  survives  (some- 
where or  other)  his  clay. 

I  was  once  present  at  the  death  of  a  little  child.  I 
will  not  pain  the  reader  by  portraying  its  agonies ;  but 
when  its  breath  was  gone  —  its  life — (nothing  more 
than  a  cloud  of  smoke  !)  and  it  lay  like  a  waxen  image 
before  me,  I  turned  my  eyes  to  its  moaning  mother, 
and  sighed  out  my  few  words  of  comfort.  But  I  am 
a  beggar  in  grief.  I  can  feel,  and  sigh,  and  look 
kindly,  I  think ;  but  I  have  nothing  to  give.  My  tongue 
deserts  me.  I  know  the  inutility  of  too  soon  comfort- 
ing. I  know  that  I  should  weep,  were  I  the  loser; 
and  I  let  the  tears  have  their  way.  Sometimes,  a  word 
or  two  I  can  muster :  a  '  Sigh  no  more  ! '  and  *  Dear 
lady,  do  not  grieve  ! '  but  further,  I  am  mute  and  use- 
less. 

To  pass  from   this,  to  another  scene  of  a  darker 

color.     It  was  in  W shire  that  I  heard  a  medical 

friend  tell  of  a  death-bed  which  he  had  witnessed. 
The  man  who  died  was  a  rich  farmer.  He  was  the 
father  of  two  natural  children  (females),  whom  he 
made  do  all  the  drudgery  of  his  house.  He  was  a 
hard  landlord,  a  bad  master,  a  libertine,  and  a  miser, 
a  drunkard,  a  fighter  at  fairs  and  markets;  and  over 
his  children  he  used  a  tyranny  which  neither  tears  nor 
labor  could  mitigate.  But  he  was  stopped  in  his  head- 
long course.  A  fierce  pain  came  upon  him :  a  fire 
raged  in  his  vitals.  His  strong  linibs,  which  no  wrestler 
could  twist,  and  no  antagonist  lay  prostrate,  shranic 
before  an  unseen  foe.  Fever  encompassed  him,  and 
delirium;  and  in  his  frightful  dreams  he  called  aloud, 
he  shrieked,  he  wept  like  a  child.     He  prayed  for  help. 


70  THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS. 

for  case,  for  a  little  respite.  It  was  all  in  vain.  My 
friend  attended  this  man,  and,  though  used  to  scenes 
of  death,  this  terrified  even  him.  He  said  that  the 
raving  of  the  sufferer  was  heyond  belief —  it  was  the 
noise  of  a  great  animal,  not  of  man.  His  eye  glared, 
and  he  swore  perpetually,  and  said  that  Satan  was  in 
wait  for  him,  and  pointed  towards  a  corner  of  the 
chamber.  When  he  made  an  effort,  it  was  like  the 
struggle  of  the  tiger.  And  then  he  would  listen,  and 
cry  that  he  heard  the  dull  roll  of  drums,  and  the  stamp 
of  a  war-horse,  and  the  sounds  of  trumpets  —  call- 
ing —  calling ;  and  he  answered  and  shrieked  that  '  he 
was  coming.'  —  And  he  v^ent  ! 

Most  of  my  own  friends  have  died  calmly.  One 
wasted  away  for  months  and  months ;  and  though 
death  came  slowly,  he  came  too  soon.     I  was  told  that 

Mr. '  wished  to  live.'     On  the  very  day  on  which 

he  died  he  tried  to  battle  with  the  great  king,  to  stand 
up  against  the  coldness  and  faintness  which  seized  upon 
him.  But  he  died,  notwithstanding,  and  though  quietly, 
reluctantly.  Another  friend  (a  female)  died  easily  and 
in  old  age,  surviving  her  faculties.  A  third  met  death 
smiling.  A  fourth  was  buried  in  Italian  earth  among 
flowers  and  odorous  herbs.  A  fifth,  the  nearest  of  all, 
died  gradually,  and  his  children  came  about  him,  and 
were  sad  ;  but  he  was  resigned  to  all  fortunes,  for  he 

believed   in   a   long    *  hereafter  ! ' And   so   time 

passes.     So 

'  Labuntur  anni :  nee  pietas  moram 
Rugis  et  instanti  senectae 
Afferet,  indomilteque  morti.' 

There  is   somethmg   inexpressively  touching  in  an 


THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS.  71 

anecdote  which  I  have  heard  of  a  foreign  artist.  He 
was  an  American,  and  had  come  hither  (he  and  his 
young  wife)  to  paint  for  fame  and  —  a  subsistence. 
They  were  strangers  in  England :  they  had  to  fight 
against  prejudice  and  poverty ;  but  their  affection  for 
each  other  solaced  them  under  every  privation,  every 
frown  of  fortune.  They  could  think,  at  least,  '  all  the 
way  over '  the  great  Atlantic  :  and  their  fancy  (little 
cherished  here)  had  leisure  to  be  busy  among  the 
friends  and  scenes  which  they  had  left  behind.  A 
gentleman,  who  had  not  seen  them  for  some  time,  went 
one  day  to  the  artist's  painting-room,  and  observing 
him  pale  and  worn,  inquired  about  his  health,  and 
afterwards  regarding  his  wife.  He  answered,  only, 
'She  has  left  me;'  and  proceeded  in  a  hurried  way 
with  his  work.  She  was  dead  !  —  and  he  was  left 
alone  to  toil,  and  get  money,  and  mourn.  The  heart 
in  which  he  had  hoarded  all  his  secrets,  all  his  hopes, 
was  cold  ;  and  Fame  itself  was  but  a  shadow. 

And  so  it  is,  that  all  we  love  must  wither;  that  we 
ourselves  must  wither  and  die  away.  'T  is  a  trite 
saying :  yet  a  wholesome  moral  belongs  to  it.  The 
thread  of  our  life  is  spun ;  it  is  twisted  firmly,  and 
looks  as  if  it  would  last  for  ever.  All  colors  are 
there,  —  the  gaudy  yellow  and  the  sanguine  red,  and 
black  —  dark  as  death ;  yet  is  it  cut  in  twain  by  the 
shears  of  Fate  almost  before  we  discern  the  peril. 

All  that  has  been,  and  is,  and  is  to  be,  must  die,  and 
the  grave  will  possess  all.  Already  the  temple  of 
Death  is  stored  with  enormous  treasures ;  but  it  shall 
he  filed,  till  its  sides  shall  crack  and  moulder,  and  its 
gaunt  king  '  Death,  the  skeleton,'  shall  wither,  like  his 


72  THE    DEATH    OF    FRIENDS. 

prey.  Oh  !  if  the  dead  may  speak,  by  what  rich 
noises  is  that  solemn  temple  haunted  !  What  a  count- 
less throng  of  shapes  is  there,  —  kings  and  poets, 
philosophers  and  soldiers !  What  a  catalogue  might 
not  be  reckoned,  from  the  founder  of  the  towers  of 
Belus,  to  the  Pefsian  who  encamped  in  the  Babylonian 
squares,  to  Alexander,  and  Socrates,  and  Plato,  to 
Csesar,  to  Alfred  !  Fair  names,  too,  might  be  strung 
upon  the  list,  like  pearls  or  glancing  diamonds, — 
creatures  who  were  once  the  grace  and  beauty  of  the 
earth,  queens  and  gentle  women,  —  Antigone  and 
Sappho,  —  Corinna  and  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi,  — 
Portia  and  Agrippine.  And  the  story  might  be  ended 
with  him,  who  died  an  exile  on  his  sea-surrounded 
rock,  the  first  emperor  of  France,  the  king  and  con- 
queror of  Italy,  the  Corsican  soldier,  Napoleon. 


1822. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


AN  ADVENTURE  AT  PADUA FOUNDED  ON  FACT. 


The  grass  is  now  growing  in  the  streets  of  Padua. 
Ranges  of  houses  are  crumbling  into  dust.  The  mar- 
ble palaces  of  its  princes  are  silent ;  and  Learning  has 
fled,  like  a  false  friend  ! 

Yet,  still  its  University  remains :  its  doctors  and  pro- 
fessors are  still  there ;  and  there  still  is  the  large  clock, 
which  thunders  the  dull  hour  into  the  ears  of  its 
straggling  disciples.  But  where  is  the  fame  of  Padua  ? 
Where  is  its  learned  splendor  ?  Where  are  its  eigh- 
teen thousand  scholars,  —  Italian  and  Greek,  Persian, 
Frank,  and  Arabian  ?  They  are  gone,  loaded  with 
the  wealth  of  science  :  they  cultivate  the  seeds  of  learn- 
ing at  home,  and  the  school  of  Petrarch  and  Galileo 
is  deserted ! 

It  is  now  many  years  ago  since  a  young  Spanish 
student  was  seen,  one  sultry  afternoon,  descending  the 
side  of  one  of  the  Euganean  hills  on  his  return  to 
Padua.  He  had  been  at  Arqua  that  morning  to  visit 
the  tomb  of  Petrarch,  and  was  going  back  to  the 
University,  in  which  he  had  lately   been  admitted  a 


74  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

scholar.  The  youth  was  of  a  good  family,  and  was  a 
native  of  Castile,  and  he  had  been  sent  to  Padua,  in 
order  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  languages,  as  well  a 
some  of  the  latter  discoveries  in  science,  which  were 
not  then  known  (or  at  least  not  taught)  in  the  colleges 
of  Spain.  He  was  a  serious,  graceful  young  man,  with 
a  proud  mouth  and  a  large  black  eye  that  wanted  noth- 
ing but  the  illumination  of  love  to  make  it  altogether 
irresistible.  His  name  was  Rodrigo  Gomez;  and,  on 
the  afternoon  of  which  we  have  spoken,  had  any  lady 
seen  him  treading  firmly  and  lightly  along  (as  though 
all  the  blood  of  Castile  were  in  his  veins),  and  looked 
for  a  moment  at  his  expressive  face,  where  the  con- 
stant olive  was  now  mixed  and  dashed  with  dark  red, 
like  the  flush  of  a  ruby  brought  out  by  the  light,  she 
might  have  pleaded  a  beautiful  excuse  for  inconstancy 
or  love.  Rodrigo  was  not  aware,  however,  of  these 
things,  but  pressed  forward  with  a  quick  step  to  Padua. 
He  saw  before  him  rich  pastures  stretching  out  into 
misty  distance,  and  the  gay  villages  of  Italy  scattered 
on  each  side.  He  passed  Cataio,  and  the  gloomy 
castle  of  the  Obizzi ;  and  keeping  onwards  by  the 
canal,  continued  to  make  the  best  of  his  way  home- 
wards. Having  gone  a  mile  or  two  further,  however, 
the  intense  heat  of  the  day  oppressed  him,  and  he 
resolved  to  rest  himself  at  a  small  inn  (which  he  had 
perceived  when  he  had  passed  that  way  before),  and 
to  complete  his  journey  in  the  evening. 

He  was  now  about  five  or  six  miles  from  Padua,  and 
he  entered  the  village  inn.  It  stood  a  little  out  of  the 
road,  and  was  sheltered  by  some  large  chestnut-trees 
from  the  heat  of  the  sun.     He  called  for  refreshments, 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  i  O 

when  bread  and  fruit  and  a  bottle  of  light  wine  were 
placed  before  him.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  sate  a 
dark  sullen-looking  man,  whose  air  appeared  some- 
what above  that  of  a  peasant,  drinking ;  another  sang  a 
romance  to  a  few  listeners  at  the  door  of  the  house ; 
and  two  noble-looking  men,  who  appeared  to  e  for- 
eigners, were  conversing  at  a  table  near  him. 

*  Sing  that  song  again,  Stephano,'  said  one  of  the 
party  at  the  outside  of  the  inn,  *  and  I  will  give  thee 
some  music  to  it : '  and  upon  this  he  took  a  violin  out 
of  a  small  bag  that  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  proceeded 
to  draw  from  it  some  exquisite  tones.  '  That  fellow  has 
a  fine  hand,'  said  one  of  the  gentlemen  near  Rodrigo 
in  Spanish.  '  By  St.  Jago  he  would  beat  the  nightin- 
gale. Listen  ! '  —  And  the  fellow  played  until  the 
hearing  of  Rodrigo  was  entranced.  He  had  heard 
fine  music  in  Spain,  and  was  painfully  subject  to  its 
power.  Now  he  listened  to  the  masterly  capriccios  of 
the  musician,  and  then  to  the  tender  symphony,  till  at 
last  the  song  commenced,  and  the  words  riveted  his 
attention.  It  told  of  *  the  Beauty  of  Padua,' — her 
faults,  her  snares,  her  bewitching  eyes,  and  her  voice 
sweeter  than  music,  which  none  had  been  ever  known 
to  resist.  It  spoke  of  her  as  a  Calypso  —  a  Circe  —  a 
creature  who  outwent  all  sculpture,  and  painting,  the 
flights  of  passion,  and  the  dreams  of  poets  ;  and  then 
some  plaintive  burthen  followed,  which  it  was  difficult 
to  understand.  But  a  second  verse  succeeding,  the 
student  listened  more  attentively,  and  caught  words  like 
these  :  — 

'  Tell  me  where  her  beauty  lies  ! 
In  her  lips,  or  in  her  eyes  ? 


76  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

In  her  bosom  white  and  deep, 
Where  her  favor'd  lovers  sleep  ; 
In  her  love-enchaining  smile  ? 
In  her  truth,  or  in  her  guile  ?  ' — 

and  then  the  burthen  was  repeated,  and  the  ditty 
closed. 

*  And,  prythee,  who  is  the  beauty  of  Padua  ? '  said 
the  elder  Spaniard,  when  the  song  was  over. 

'  He  means  Cornelia,'  replied  the  landlord  of  the 
inn  (a  little  stout  humorous-looking  man)  who  had 
just  entered  the  room. 

'I  do  not  know  her,  friend,'  retorted  the  stranger  — 
*  who  is  she  ?  I  never  heard  of  more  than  one  of  that 
name,  and  she  died  long  ago.' 

*  And  pray  who  was  she,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  ?' 
said  the  host.  '  We  have  only  one  of  that  name  who 
has  been  remarkable.' 

'  She  was  a  famous  woman,  and  mother  of  the 
Gracchi ! ' 

*  Oh !  —  a  relation  perhaps.  But  this  lady  has  no 
children  :  plenty  of  lovers,  though.' 

'And  now,  our  good  host,'  said  the  Spaniard,  'sit 
down  (here,  upon  this  bench,)  and  help  us  to  drink 
some  of  this  excellent  wine.  Ha !  't  has  a  rare  flavor, 
i'  faith.     This  is  your  true  Montepulciano ' 

'  You  are  a  judge,  Signior,'  interrupted  the  landlord. 

'  No,  no ;  I  have  tasted  the  true  grape  in  my  time, 
though,   I  confess.     This   wine  reminds    me  of  some 

which  I  drank  at  the  Prince  of  C .'s,  at  Naples. 

It  must  be  of  the  same  vintage.  But,  to  leave  that 
subject  —  prythee  sit  down  by  me,  friend,  and  tell  us, 
without  more  ado,  who  your  Cornelia  is." 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  77 

The  host  bowed,  and  obeyed.  He  tasted  his  own  wine 
like  a  landlord,  and  spoke  to  the  following  efTect :  — 

*  About  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  Signiors  '  said 
he,  '  the  large  palace,  which  you  will  see  on  entering 
Padua,  (you  will  know  it  by  Uie  fountain  of  lions,)  be- 
longed to  a  Cardinal  of  the  family  of  th(?  Minotti.  He 
was  of  a  proud  and  tyrannous  temper,  Sirs,  as  your 
high-born  gentles  frequently  are ;  but  he  possessed 
large  revenues,  a  wonderful  stock  of  learning,  and,  as 
it  was  said,  expected  one  day  or  other  to  be  Pope.  He 
had  not  always  been  a  churchman,  however;  but,  in 
his  early  days,  had  followed  the  trade  of  fighting  ;  and 
had,  in  fact,  signalized  himself  a  little  in  public  battles, 
and  considerably  in  private  disputes.  In  truth  he  was 
of  a  quarrelsome  nature  ;  and  being  an  expert  swords- 
man, was  much  respected  by  gallants  in  general.  He 
had  a  friend  however ;  one  —  one ' 

'  Antonio  Zetti,'  said  the  stranger  in  the  peasant's 
dress. 

'  You  are  right  Signior,'  returned  the  host ;  *  Zetti 
was  the  name,  as  I  recollect,  —  Antonio  Zetti.  Well, 
it  so  chanced  that  this  gallant  fell  in  love  with  the 
same  lady  to  whom  the  count  Minotti  was  then  at- 
tached :  for  the  great  Cardinal,  Sirs,  was  then  only  a 
Coun  .' 

'By  St.  Jago  !  only''  —  said  the  Spaniard. 

*  Yes,  Signior,'  replied  tlie  landlord,  *  nothing  more, 
I  assure  you.' 

'  And  was  not  that  enough  ? ' 

'Oh,  no,  Signior,  —  a  mere  nothing.  We  think 
nothing  of  people  here  unless  they  belong  to  the 
church.' 


78  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

'Why  was  my  crown  not  shaven,  Guzman?'  said 
the  Spaniard,  aside,  to  his  countryman.  '  Why,  what 
an  ass  was  I  to  carve  my  dinner  with  a  sword.  I 
might  have  been  a  scarlet  king  here,  and  poisoned  the 
ear  of  the  old  man  of  the  mountains.' 

*  Well,  Sir,*  the  Count  Minotti  and  his  friend  quar- 
relled (about  the  lady)  and  fought ;  and  Antonio     -     ' 

'  Was  killed.     I  see  it  to  the  end,'  said  the  Spaniard. 

*  Yes,  Sir,  he  was  killed,  as  you  say,  and  left  a  fine 
spring  morning  behind  him.  They  met  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Rome,  (where  the  Count  then  lived,)  and  the 
first  lunge  cured  the  Signior  Zetti  of  his  passion.' 

'  And  the  lady  married  the  victor  ?  hey  ! '  added  the 
Spaniard.  '  The  women  are  fond  of  laurels,  I  know, 
and  a  little  blood  will  never  spoil  a  green  leaf.' 

'  No,  Sir ;  she  was  obstinate  and  refused  the  Count 
altogether ;  —  an  extraordinary  case,  Sir.  He  was  rich, 
six < feet  high,  and  a  soldier;  but,  somehow  or  other, 
she  rejected  all.  Upon  her  refusal,  the  Count  threat- 
ened extremely  to  kill  himself.  But  he  didn't.  No, 
Sir,  he  was  too  much  of  a  soldier  to  die  out  of  a  brawl. 
On  the  contrary,  he  lived  on,  and  pretty  freely  too,  as 
report  says ;  and,  in  the  course  of  time,  he  fell  in  love 
again  —  I  forget  with  whom  —  but  the  lady  died,  and 
then  he  gave  up  his  wild  courses,  and  left  the  army, 
and,  finally,  entered  a  convent  of  Dominican  monks. 
There  he  remained  some  years ;  and  his  talents  being 
perceived,  (and  his  penances  noised  about,)  he  eventu- 
ally became  its  superior.  From  this  height  it  was  but 
one  step  to  a  bishopric,  and  another  to  a  cardinal's  hat. 
These  things  are  not  difficult,  Signiors,  when  Fortune 
is  in  the  mood  to  serve  us.     About  this  time  the  chief 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  79 

of  his  family  died,  and  his  Eminence  removed  to  the 
great  Leone  palace  near  Padua,  bringing  with  him  a 
female  child.  The  girl  was  brought  up  in  all  man;;e ' 
of  luxury  :  she  had  foreign  masters,  was  taught  music, 
and  painting,  and  the  languages,  and,  in  short,  came 
to  be  considered  quite  a  prodigy  amongst  the  young 
women  here.  She  was  beautiful,  too,  as  I  have  heard 
said,  and  was  thought  to  resemble  a  celebrated  picture 
painted  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  (a  famous  artist  in  his 
time,)  a  Florentine.  However,  all  this  lasted  only 
eighteen  or  nineteen  years,  or  thereabouts,  when  the 
old  Cardinal  died,  and  left  this  girl  —  who  was  gene- 
rally supposed  to  be  his  child  —  a  beggar.' 

*  That  was  a  beggarly  action  of  my  lord  the  Cardi- 
nal,' said  the  elder  Spaniard.  '  But  what  became  of 
the  girl  ?' 

'  Why,  Signior,  the  people  hereabouts,  finding  that 
she  could  establish  no  claim  as  his  daughter,  began  to 
conjecture  that  she  might  have  been  his  mistress,  and 
shunned  her  accordingly.' 

'  'Tis  a  good-natured  world,'   muttered  the  Spaniard. 

*  Yes,  Signior,'  returned  the  host,  '  it  takes  care  of 
its  morals.  Well,  —  about  this  time,  and  while  the 
young  girl,  who  was  called  Cornelia,  was  in  great 
distress,  (for  she  had  failed  in  procuring  scholars  in 
music  and  painting  and  other  arts  of  which  she  was 
mistress,  owing  to  the  strict  virtue  of  the  families  here,) 
—  about  this  time,  comes  a  young  gallant  to  the 
University,  a  handsome  spark,  Signiors,  (about  my 
height,  or  rather  better,)  who  conquered  her  heart  and 
her  person  at  once.' 

'  So  !  what  was  his  name  ?  ' 


80  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

'  Antonio  Zetti,'  said  the  peasant-looking  stranger 
again. 

'  Why,  Signior  ! '  exclaimed  the  landlord,  *  you  seem 
to  know  more  about  the  matter  than  I  do.  I  pray  you 
go  on  with  the  story.' 

'  May  I  ask,  Sir,'  said  the  Spaniard,  •  who  this 
Antonio  was  ?  I  thought  that  his  '  Eminence  '  (as  our 
friend  here  calls  him)  had  put  an  end  to  his  pilgrim- 
ages.' 

*  He  was  the  son  of  that  Antonio  Zetti,  Sir,'  replied 
the  stranger.  '  His  father's  life  was  cut  off  by  the 
bloody  churchman,  Minotti ;  and  the  youth  was  sworn 
(as  Hannibal  of  old  was)  upon  a  flaming  altar,  to 
revenge  his  father's  murder  —  and  he  did  !  ' 

'  But  not  upon  Minotti ! ' 

*  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! '  laughed  the  stranger.  '  I  am  not  so 
sure.  'T  was  whispered  that  he  set  off  on  the  road  to 
Paradise  somewhat  suddenly.' 

*  And  his  daughter  .'' ' 

'  His  daughter  ! '  said  the  peasant,  in  a  bitter  voice, 
*  why  she  would  be  glad  to  die,  but  that  she  fears  to  do 
so.  Her  fame  is  spotted  like  a  leper's  skin.  Her  life 
is  a  lie  —  for  she  has  virtue  in  her  heart,  if  I  must 
speak  truth,  while  she  gives  herself  away  to  sin.  Some 
say  that  she  gives  to  no  one  more  than  a  smile ' 

'  Why  does  she  not  quit  her  horrid  ways } '  inter- 
rupted the  Spaniard. 

'  Why,  Signior .?  —  why,  because  she  cannot  starve, 
and  dare  not  die.  Oh  !  she's  a  rare  riddle,  worse  even 
than  the  Sphinx j  for  'tis  said  that  all  who  comprehend 
her,  perish.' 

'  Yours  is  an  odd  story,  Sir.' 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  81 

"Tis  whispered  that  her  lovers  die,  Sir,  by  some 
means  or  other,  as  soon  as  she  has  begun  to  like  them. 
A  score  of  them  are  gone.  Some  have  destroyed 
themselves,  some  are  missing,  and  some  have  been 
heard  of  fastened  to  the  boats  at  Tripoli.  She  is  a 
perilous  person,  Sirs,  and  therefore  —  beware  ! ' 

And,  so  saying,  he  left  the  room. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  this  story  the  Student  had 
listened  with  an  intense  interest;  and,  during  the  latter 
part  of  the  dialogue,  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
peasant's  face  until  he  departed.  Rodrigo  then  rose 
from  his  chair;  and,  after  paying  for  his  temperate 
repast,  followed  the  track  of  the  stranger. 

[Thus  far  the  facts  of  this  story  were  detailed  by  the 
Senor  Antonio  Luis  Gomez,  who  was,  in  fact,  the 
'  elder  Spaniard '  of  the  preceding  chapter.  He,  it 
seems,  had  not  seen  his  nephew  since  his  childhood, 
having  been  for  some  years  before  a  resident  in  India. 
He  was  then  proceeding,  as  it  was  said,  from  Leghorn 
to  Padua  and  Venice,  (having  only  touched  upon  his 
native  soil,)  to  settle  some  important  private  affairs. 
The  latter  part  of  the  story  (such  as  it  is)  has  been 
collected  partly  from  the  lips  of  the  woman  at  whose 
house  Rodrigo  lodged,  and  partly  from  the  Student's 
own  letters.] 

The  curiosity  of  Rodrigo  had  been  raised  to  an  ex- 
treme pitch.  It  was  his  fauh,  indeed,  (if  it  be  a  fault) 
to  possess  an  inquisitive  spirit.  He  was  born  in  a 
sunny  country,  and  was  gifted  with  a  warm  imagination. 
His  passions  —  those  devils  which  lay  waste  the 
elysium  of  young  hearts  —  were  now  abroad,  raging 
and  devouring,  flushing  his  cheeks  with  scarlet,   and 

VOL.  I.  6 


82  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

making  his  eye  glitter  and  his  pulse  to  tremble.  He 
was  almost  a  stranger  in  Italy  —  young,  fiery,  curious, 
and  had  never  been  in  love.  What  more  is  required 
to  account  for  the  most  extravagant  actions  .? 
,  He  followed  the  stranger,  who  had  spoken  in  a  tone 
of  bitterness  towards  Minotti  and  his  daughter,  and  at 
last  overtook  him  in  a  hollow  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  inn.  '  You  walk  quick,  Sir,'  called  he,  when 
he  arrived  near  to  the  object  of  his  search.  The 
stranger  turned  suddenly  round,  and  put  his  hand  into 
his  bosom  ;  but  seeing  who  it  was,  only  smiled.  '  Ha  ! 
young  Sir,  is  it  you .''  What  has  tempted  you  to  desert 
your  wine  and  olives  before  the  red  heat  of  the  sun  is 
quite  down  ?  You  would  have  done  more  wisely  to 
have  rested  longer.' 

'  No,'  replied  Rodrigo,  '  I  was  enough  refreshed ; 
and,  to  speak  truth,  I  was  desirous  of  a  companion  to 
cheat  the  weariness  of  the  way.' 

*  Ay  !  —  are  you  a  stranger  here  ?  '  inquired  his 
companion. 

'  Yes,  Senor,'  returned  he,  '  I  am  a  Spaniard.' 

*  Yours  is  a  brave  country,  Siguier,'  said  the  stranger. 
'  I  love  it.  It  is  the  land  of  gallantry  and  romance. 
T7t is  is  a  den  of  intrigue.' 

'  I  thought  it  had  been  the  temple  of  study,'  said  the 
youth. 

'  It  is,'  retorted  the  stranger ;  '  we  study  how  to 
gratify  ourselves  —  how  to  sing,  to  fiddle,  to  idle,  to 
lie,.,to  cheat,  and  —  to  revenge  ! ' 

*  I  came  here  only  to  learn  Greek  and  Latin  and  the 
sciences,'  said  the  student ;  '  I  shall  get  more  than  I 
reckoned  upon.' 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  83 

*  You  will,  Signior ;  and  of  that  you  may  be  sure.' 
The  conversation  now  drooped  into  silence  :  for, 
although  Rodrigo  had  been  impatient  to  learn  some 
more  particulars  of  the  daughter  of  Minotti,  he  had 
not  courage  to  make  a  direct  inquiry.  In  the  course 
of  half  an  hour  more  they  approached  the  city.  The 
sun  had,  by  this  time,  sunk,  but  he  had  gone  down 
blushing  to  the  bed  of  Thetis  his  bride,  and  had  left 
all  the  west  dyed  in  hot  light.  A  long  vast  irregular 
cloud  stretched  itself  across  the  sky  from  south  to 
north,  having  one  side  tinged  with  the  crimson  lustre 
of  the  sun,  while  the  other  presented  a  hard  purple 
outline,  which  the  imagination  might  almost  have  im- 
pregnated with  life.  And  now  came  sighing  through 
the  myrtle  and  almond  trees  the  gentle  voice  of  the 
evening  wind.  The  vines,  which  crept  from  tree  to 
tree,  rustled  and  shook  their  fringed  leaves :  the  unseen 
brook,  that  had  appeared  to  lie  silent  all  through  the 
sultry  day,  awoke  and  ran  along  bubbling  and  spark- 
ling amongst  weeds  and  flowers ;  while,  in  the  dis- 
tance, where  the  city  lay,  might  be  seen  lights  flashing, 
and  vanishing,  and  re-appearing,  at  a  hundred  different 
points  from  the  windows  of  Padua.  It  was  now  the 
close  of  the  day,  and  a  long  booming  sound  (it  was 
the  evening  gun)  went  rolling  over  the  dusk  meadows, 
like  the  hollow  echoes  of  thunder,  and  announced  that 
the  city  watch  was  set. 

While  Rodrigo  was  bathing  his  forehead  (for  he  had 
uncapped)  in  the  cool  odors  of  the  breeze,  and  was 
speculating  on  fifty  things  all  beautiful  and  impossible, 
he  turned  suddenly  round  from  the  west,  (now  grown 
faint  and  obscure,)  and  beheld  near  him  a  stupendous 


84  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

object  which  had  been  hitherto  concealed  by  the  trees 
and  the  windings  of  the  road,  but  which  now  flung 
down  a  vast  black  shadow  on  that  part  of  the  road 
which  he  was  soon  about  to  traverse.  When  they  had 
arrived  close  at  the  place,  the  stranger  said  in  a  pecu- 
liar voice,  '  This  is  the  Fountain  of  Lions.'  Rodrigo 
raised  his  eyes,  and  beheld  an  old  overgrown  palace 
heaving  up  its  huge  square  shoulder  between  him  and 
the  rising  moon.  Every  thing  about  it  appeared  utterly 
deserted,  and  the  '  Fountain  of  Lions '  itself  seemed  to 
have  become  neglected.  Four  of  those  grand  beasts, 
larger  than  life,  and  cut  in  granite,  lay  there,  with  their 
enormous  paws  stretched  out  and  their  stony  jaws 
open,  but  no  sparkling  water  came  forth ;  and  the 
large  circular  basin  below,  over  which  ran  (carved  in 
strong  relief)  the  stories  of  poets,  was  dry  and  dusty 
and  useless.  '  Ha,  ha  !  '  said  the  stranger  again,  '  This 
is  the  house  of  Minotti ! '  —  and,  as  he  ceased,  the 
echoes  took  up  the  word,  and  uttered  in  a  hoarse 
and  distended  tone,  '  Minotti !  —  Minotti ! '  It  was  as 
though  the  inanimate  marbles  had  risen  from  their 
stony  sleep,  and  flung  back  the  name  of  their  dead 
master  upon  the  man  who  reviled  him  in  his  grave. 
'  That  was  odd  enough,'  said  Rodrigo  ;  and  the  stranger 
assented  in  a  suppressed  tone,  and  then  both  walked  on 
in  silence.  At  length,  they  recovered  themselves,  and 
talked  of  various  matters  until  they  arrived  at  the  gates 
of  the  city.  '  Here  I  must  leave  you,  Signior,'  said 
the  stranger,  'farewell!'  —  'Farewell,'  replied  Rod- 
rigo — '  yet,  stay  :  —  you  told  us  a  curious  story  about 
a  woman  of  Padua.'  The  stranger  was  silent.  '  May 
I  ask,'  resumed  the  student,  *  where  she  lives  ? '  —  'In 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  85 

the  western  suburbs,  young  Sir;  but  be  wise,  and  go 
not  thither.  You  have  heard  of  Circe  ?  and  Calypso  ? ' 
—  '  Yes.'  — '  Well ;  she  is  of  that  family,  and  may 
prove  a  perilous  friend.'  '  I  thank  you  for  your  advice, 
Siguier.     I  should   like   to  know  whom   I   may  thank 

hereafter.     Your  name  is '  the  student  hesitated. 

*  Antonio  Zetti  !  '  was  the  reply.  And  Rodrigo  and 
the  stranger  parted. 

That  night  the  Spanish  student  never  reached  his 
home.  But  when  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  were  stream- 
ing over  the  plains  of  the  Milanese,  he  returned  to  his 
chamber,  exceeding  wearied,  as  though  he  had  passed 
the  night  in  wandering.  He  came  with  a  flushed  yet 
haggard  countenance,  and  a  slow  step,  and  looked 
thoughtful  and  even  melancholy.  '  Did  you  lose  your 
way  from  Arqua,  Signior  ? '  inquired  the  dame  with 
whom  he  lodged.  '  Ay,'  said  he,  '  I  have  been  far 
from  the  right  path,  but  I  shall  know  better  another 
time  ; '  saying  which  he  retired  to  his  room,  and  passed 
the  whole  of  that  day  alone. 

The  next  evening  he  was  absent  till  past  midnight, 
and  the  next, — and  the  next;  and  so  he  continued 
day  after  day.  His  social  and  gentle  manners  disap- 
peared, his  fresh  look  was  gone,  and  his  purse  (repeat- 
edly replenished  and  as  often  secretly  exhausted)  no 
longer  afforded  him  the  means  of  being  liberal  or  even 
just.  The  letters  of  introduction  which  he  liad  brought 
to  Padua  remained  undelivered,  and  one  or  two  friends 
who  had  been  requested  to  notice  him,  complained  of 
his  having  abandoned  them.  His  landlady  now  (whose 
bill  was  larger  than  she  wished),  grew  curious  and  a 
little  impatient  on  the  subject  of  her  lodger.     '  Our 


86  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

young  gentleman  grows  thinner  and  thinner  every  day, 
observed  Lorenza  to  her  mother.  —  *  Ay  girl,  replied 
his  hostess,  *he  is  as  thin  as  his  purse.  I  do  not  under- 
stand his  doings,  not  I.'  '  He  grows  paler,'  said  the 
daughter.  — '  Ay,  ay,  and  poorer  too,'  retorted  the 
dame.  '  I  must  take  some  means  to  get  my  money 
soon,  or  perhaps  he'll  die  in  my  debt.  I  do  not  under- 
stand it.  Here,  he  eats  and  drinks  at  my  cost  — 
'  Ah !  mother,  he  eats  so  little,'  said  the  interceding 
Lorenza.  '  Why,  to  be  sure,  he  hath  grown  sparing,' 
answered  the  mother :  —  and  here  the  conversation 
ended. 

Shortly  after  this,  however,  the  hostess  (having 
made  no  further  progress  into  the  student's  secret) 
applied  to  him  peremptorily  for  money.  He  blushed 
and  stammered  out  something  about  his  remittances, 
and  soon  after,  in  a  sad  and  drooping  condition,  quitted 
the  house.  He  returned,  however,  and  paid  her,  and 
from  that  time  afterwards  was  never  heard  of.  The 
landlady  waited  for  him  during  that  day,  and  expected 
him  throughout  the  night,  and  the  next  day  also,  — and 
the  next,  —  and  the  next.  But  he  never  came.  At 
last,  she  made  known  the  circumstance  of  his  disap- 
pearance to  his  friends,  who  set  on  foot  every  inquiry, 
but  in  vain.  There  was  nothing  which  threw  a  light 
on  this  mysterious  subject :  unless  it  was  a  passage  or 
two  from  some  letters  written  by  the  student  to  a  young 
countryman  of  his,  to  whom  it  appears  he  was  related. 
These  letters,  which  are  for  the  most  part  penned  in  a 
small  tremulous  hand,  are  addressed  to  '  The  Senor 
Juan  Llanos,  at  Avila  in  Leon,'  and  contain  among 
other  things,  (not  essential  to  this  story,)  the  following 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  87 

curious  extracts  : — [After  giving  a  brief  account  of  the 
dialogue  at  the  inn,  which  we  have  been  enabled  to 
state  much  more  at  length,  he  details  the  particulars  of 
his  walk  homewards,  which  have  been  already  given  ; 
and  then  proceeds.] 

'I  felt  —  shall  I  say  it?  —  an  appetite,  a  passion,  a  burning 
desire,  an  intense  curiosity  beyond  all  that  possesses  ordinary 
men.  My  devil  was  an  inquisitive  spirit,  which  rode  me  like 
a  nightmare.  I  could  no  longer  resolve  to  be  incurious  or  con- 
tent. I  saw  a  hell  open  before  me,  and  I  resolved  to  cast 
myself  into  its  abyss.  My  love  —  but  it  was  not  love  :  It  was 
to  true  love  like  what  a  stove-heated  room  odorous  with  jas- 
mine and  roses  is  to  the  clear  and  bracing  air.  My  limbs 
trembled  and  were  restless.  My  eye  glanced  about,  yet  noted 
nothing.  My  mouth  was  dry,  and  I  bit  my  lips  till  they  ran 
over  with  blood.  I  hurried  on  through  the  streets,  past  shops 
and  warehouses  and  blazing  inns  —  and  at  last  reached  the 
suburbs.  Still  I  kept  on  with  an  unsubdued  pace.  The  moon 
had  risen,  and  the  evening  star  was  straight  above  me.  I  looked 
at  it,  and  it  threw  down  its  small  piercing  eye,  as  though  it 
saw  through  my  purpose.  I  had  now  reached  the  last  house 
of  the  town.  Before  me  was  a  dark  lane,  whose  hedges  were 
overgrown  with  honeysuckle  and  flaunting  ivy.  I  plunged 
into  it  in  a  moment,  and  gave  my  soul  up  to  intoxication  and 
love.' 

It  appears,  by  another  letter,  that  Rodrigo  failed  that 
night  in  finding  the  idol  of  his  imagination.  She  was 
discovered  by  him  afterwards,  however,  and  he  gave 
himself  to  her  society,  utterly  reckless  of  the  world 
around  him.  He  made  her  magnificent  presents,  which 
(to  do  her  justice)  she  received  somewhat  unwillingly, 
and  she,  in  fact,  appears  to  have  been  ignorant  of  the 
amount  of  his  resources.  At  last,  the  madness  of  a 
boy  prevailed  with  her,  and  she  returned  his  love  with 


88  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

a  passion  as  intense  as  his   own.     At  this  period  he 
writes  thus  :  — 

'  You  should  see  her,  my  friend,  as  I  have  seen  her,  more 
beautiful  than  the  summer  rainbow.  You  should  hear  her 
speak,  so  sweetly,  so  smilins:ly,  and  sing,  like  the  pining 
nightingale.  For  she,  too,  has  no  mate,  and  lives  in  a  green 
haunt,  mysterious  and  alone,  like  that  bird  whom  the  poets 
■write  of.  Her  breath  is  like  the  odor  of  flowers  —  her  tread 
like  air  —  and  her  eyes  as  the  starry  nights  of  August  are. 
But,  why  do  I  fret  thee  with  these  trite  smiles  ?  I  have  felt 
her  kisses !  do  you  hear .'  —  her  hot,  inticing,  intoxicating 
kisses.  Her  lips  have  burned  love  upon  me,  —  and  I  live  !  — . 
Oh !  Juan,  Juan !  that  was  no  fable  which  tells  of  the  witch 
Circe  and  her  crowd  of  brute  slaves.  /  myself  am  transformed 
in  spirit,  —  prostrate  and  supine.  How  willingly  would  I  lay 
me  down  on  the  base  ground  and  bid  her  trample  me  to  dust ! 
Juan,  am  I  not  lost  ?  I  have  gone  from  myself,  surely.  I 
have  left  all  study,  all  amusements,  all  conver.se  of  friends. 
The  intellect  of  past  ages  which  opened  upon  me  like  a 
Heaven,  now  looks  dull  and  murky.  I  have  abandoned  all 
things  for  one  alone,  and  she  may  be  at  last  —  a  woman  ! ' 

Some  of  his  other  letters  are  such  a  mere  tissue  of 
extravagant  sayings,  that  we  cannot  venture  to  tran- 
scribe them.  He  seems  to  have  been  bewitched  beyond 
all  chance  of  relief.  He  talks  more  rapturously  than  a 
poet  could  do,  and  as  fondly  as  a  life-devoted  lover. 

'  I  have  just  left  her,  and  it  is  a  relief  to  me  to  write  to  thee, 
my  dear  friend  Juan.  Do  not  perplex  me  with  thy  advice  ;  it 
is  heartless,  and  cold,  and  useless.  I  am  hers  for  ever.  We 
hear  of  menaces,  and  strange  stories  are  told  to  us  in  secret, 
and  horrid  forebodings  haunt  us  ;  but  we  are  constant  to  each 
other,  and  that  makes  amends  for  all.  "  Amends,"  do  I  say  ? 
Is  it  thus  that  the  slave  of  Love  can  speak,  who  ought  to  be  so 
grateful,  so  devoted  :  —  Juan,  I  have  just  left  her.  Oh!  hers 
are  the  gardens  of  enchantment.     The  fountains  and  fruit 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  89 

trees,  —  the  waving  whispering  branches,  the  ground  carpeted 
with  flowers,  the  marble  hall,  the  Persian  couches,  the  glitter- 
ing wines,  and  the  maddening  kisses,  —  I  feel  them  still. 
Were  I  not  thus  to  pour  out  my  folly  before  thee,  I  should  die 
of  excess  of  pleasure.' 

'  And  yet  we  are  circled  all  round  with  peril.  That  horrible 
Zeiii  is  near  us,  who  wears  his  hand  eternally  on  his  dagger, 
and  feeds  only  upon  blood  and  gold.  His  emissaries  are  upon 
us.  Every  step  that  I  tread  is  watched.  I  heard  his  laugh 
last  night  from  a  thicket  in  her  garden,  as  I  pressed  her  to 
escape  from  him  and  Padua.  He  is  a  very  devil,  whom 
revenge  and  a  coarse  passion  alternately  sway.  And  yet  we 
live  under  this  contemptible  tyranny  !  Juan.  What  shouldst 
thou  think  of  me,  Juan,  were  I  to  leave  thee  and  Spain  for  ever, 
to  dwell  in  some  desert  with  this  Circe  of  my  love  ?  Wouldst 
thou  forgive  me  ?  Would  m)'  father  pardon  me  ?  Yet  why 
do  I  speak  of  him,  who  never  threw  away  a  gentle  word  upon 
the  son  of  his  dead  Theresa  ?  He  was  an  ingrate  to  love,  an 
apostate  from  his  old  affection,  and  I  have  still  enough  of  my 
proud  mother's  Castilian  spirit  in  me,  to  assist  me  to  this  in- 
dignant reproach.  Farewell,  Juan  !  farewell !  Shouldst  thou 
not  receive  another  letter  soon  from  me,  look  to  hear  that  I  am 
gone  over  to  the  Hesperian  islands,  where  now  no  "  unenchant- 
ed  ■'  dragon  watches  ;  or  else  that  I  have  begun  my  pilgrimage 
into  the  sunset  wildernesses,  where  man  has  no  enemy  but  the 
snake  and  the  panther,  and  love  no  termination  but  the  grave  ! ' 

It  was  about  the  time  of  writing  this  letter,  that  the 
student  left  his  home  at  Padua,  never  to  return.  The 
old  landlady  wondered,  as  I  have  said,  and  her  daugh- 
ter, the  pretty  Lorenza,  sighed  to  think  that  so  sweet 
and  noble  a  youth  should  leave  her  without  a  word  at 
parting.  She  had  let  her  heart  wander  too  often 
towards  him,  and  her  pity  would  soon  have  risen  into 
love.      But   he    disappeared,  and   she    grieved  like  a 


90  THE    SPANISH    STUDENT. 

gentle  woman  for  him,  through  many  and  many  a  day, 
and  at  last  awoke  from  her  love  delusion  as  from  a 
dream. 

Nothing  certain  was  ever  heard,  after  this  period,  of 
Cornelia  Minotti  or  the  Spanish  student.  But  the 
captain  of  a  Leghorn  trader,  who  had  been  obliged  to 
malce  a  voyage  to  America,  and  had  been  up  the 
country  as  far  as  Montreuil,  stated  that  a  young  couple, 
answering  their  description,  had  some  years  before 
arrived  at  that  city,  and  had  afterwards  purchased  a  sec- 
tion of  land  in  the  neighborhood.  Upon  this  land  they 
had  built  a  small  house,  where  they  lived  very  secluded, 
never  coming  even  to  Montreuil  except  upon  some  very 
urgent  occasion.  The  man,  he  said,  was  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  tall  and  of  an  olive  complexion,  with  a 
seriousness  of  aspect  which  seemed  to  denote  constitu- 
tional melancholy.  The  woman  (who  appeared  about 
the  same  age)  wSs  extremely  pale,  but  possessed  a 
commanding  figure,  and  a  lustrous  expression  in  her 
eyes  that  he  had  never  seen  equalled.  They  were,  he 
understood,  quite  unoffending  people,  though  resei-ved, 
charitable  to  the  poor  settlers  and  people  around  them, 
and,  above  all,  appeared  to  entertain  towards  each  other 
the  most  romantic  and  extravagant  affection. 

1S23. 


A  SHORT  IVn'STERY. 


In  the  village  of  Rubeland  (which  is  situate  in  the 
Lower  Hartz,  in  the  county  of  Reinstein)  there  are 
superstitions  enough  to  satisfy  a  poet  or  a  monk. 
There  is  not  an  old  man  who  has  not  a  goblin  story  to 
tell  for  every  white  hair  that  is  left  on  his  foolish  head ; 
and  there  is  not  a  village  girl  who  will  go  to  sleep,  on 
any  night  between  Michaelmas  and  Easter,  without 
mumbling  a  prayer  for  protection  against  the  elves  and 
dwarfs  of  the  country. 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  (for  it  is  my  native  place,) 
but  there  is  not  perhaps  a  more  ignorant  and  idle  set 
of  people  than  is  to  be  found  in  this  same  village  of 
Rubeland.  It  is  like  a  spot  on  which  the  light  of 
Heaven  has  never  shone ;  dark,  melancholy,  and  su- 
perstitious. The  inhabitants  work  a  little  (and  lazily) 
in  the  morning,  in  order  to  earn  a  miserable  meal,  and 
at  night  they  bewilder  their  weak  brains  with  telling 
and  listening  to  stories  about  goblins  and  fairies,  which 
would  make  a  man  of  the  world  absolutely  die  with 
laughter  to  hear.  The  only  excuse  for  them  is,  that 
their  fathers  and  grandfathers  up  to  the  flood  have  been 
all  as  foolish  as  themselves.     I  never  heard  of  a  phi- 


92  A    SHORT    MYSTERY. 

losopher  having  been  born  in  Rubeland  ;  no,  not  one. 
One  fellow,  indeed,  who  called  himself  an  orator,  and 
who  had  tolerable  success  as  a  travelling  tinker  and 
mountebank,  claimed  it  as  his  native  place  :  and  a  poor 
youth,  who  slept  all  day  for  the  purpose  of  writing 
nonsense-verses  at  night,  was  certainly  born  there  ;  but 
no  one  else  who  can  be  called  even  remarkable. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  my  great  uncle  Wilhelm 
should  have  chosen  the  neighborhood  of  this  village 
to  live  in ;  but  so  it  was.  My  uncle  Wilhelm  (the 
reader  doubtless  has  often  studied  his  learned  produc- 
tions) was  professor  of  medicine  in  the  colleges  of 
Gottingen.  It  was  he  who  made  such  a  noise  through- 
out all  Germany,  twenty  years  ago,  by  his  famous 
papers  on  the  disease  hypochondriasis,  as  every  body 
knows.  During  the  winter  months,  and  indeed  during 
those  parts  of  spring  and  autumn  which  verge  upon 
winter,  he  dwelt  at  Gottingen  in  quality  of  professor ; 
but  in  the  full  summer  season  he  shut  up  his  laboratory, 
and  came  to  enjoy  quiet  and  breathe  the  fresh  air  of 
the  country,  in  the  neighborhood  of  our  village  of 
Rubeland. 

My  uncle  was  a  sad  sceptical  fellow  in  some  things. 
He  laughed  at  the  great  ghost  of  the  Hartz  mountains 
r —  the  magic  tower  of  Scharzfeld  —  the  dwarf-holes  of 
Walkenried  —  the  dancing  pool  —  the  devil's  wall  — 
the  copper  kettles  of  the  elves,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
infernal  machinery  of  the  little  spirits ;  and  positively 
roared  himself  into  an  asthma,  and  affronted  three  of 
the  richest  burghers  of  Blankcnburg  by  the  ridicule 
which  he  cast  upon  the  idol  Puslrich  or  Spit-Jlre  to 
their  faces.     My  uncle,  moreover,  cared   nothing  for 


A    SHORT    MYSTERY.  93 

people  only  two  inches  and  a  half  high.  He  had 
enough  to  do,  he  protested,  with  the  larger  race  of 
fools  :  but  the  little  ones  he  left  to  the  pigmy  doctors, 
of  whom  he  had  no  doubt  but  that  there  was  a  large 
number.  It  was  natural,  he  said,  that  it  should  be  so: 
it  was  as  natural  that  there  should  be  found  doctors 
where  there  was  plenty  of  patients,  as  that  in  places 
where  there  was  a  multitude  of  cabbages  and  fruit, 
there  should  be  (as  there  always  is)  a  plentiful  stock  of 
caterpillars  and  grubs. 

But  my  purpose  is  not,  at  present,  to  give  a  detail 
of  my  uncle  Wilhelm's  opinions,  some  of  which  might 
shock  the  tender-minded  reader ;  but  simply  to  rescue 
an  anecdote,  which  I  have  heard  him  relate,  from 
unmerited  oblivion.  '  I  was  going,'  said  he  —  but  I 
believe  I  must  still  keep  him  as  the  third  person  singu- 
lar. I  can  manage  the  matter  better  in  that  way,  and 
the  reader  will  excuse  me. 

It  was  on  a  wet  evening,  then,  in  the-  month  of  Sep- 
tember 17 — ,  that  an  elderly  man,  respectably  dressed, 
stopped  at  the  little  inn  of  the  village  of  Rubeland. 
On  dismounting,  he  gave  particular  directions  to  the 
ostler  to  be  careful  of  his  nag  (a  stout  little  roadster), 
and  proceeded  straight  to  the  kitchen  fire,  where  he 
disencumbered  himself  of  his  outer  coat  and  boots, 
and  ordered  the  private  room  to  be  made  ready  for  his 
reception.  The  landlady  bustled  about  to  do  his  bid- 
ding, while  the  stranger  sat  down  quietly  among  the 
boors  who  crowded  round  the  great  kitchen  fire,  some 
of  whom  oifered  him  the  civility  of  the  better  seats,  but 
he  rejected  all  with  a  silent  shake  of  the  head,  and  in 
fact  appeared  tp  be  occupied  with  any  thing  but  what  was 


94  A    SHORT    MTSTEHY. 

going  on  around  him.  At  last,  his  valise  having  been 
unstrapped  and  brought  in,  some  idea  or  other  occurred 
to  his  recollection,  and  he  opened  one  of  the  ends  of 
the  '  leathern  convenience,'  and  took  thereout  a  bulky 
object,  containing  a  variety  of  curious  instruments. 
These  he  examined,  wiping  some  and  breathing  upon 
others,  and  displaying  all  to  the  wondering  eyes  of  the 
peasants,  who  were  not  long  in  coming  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  he  was  a  conjuror  of  no  common  acquire- 
ments. The  stranger,  however,  did  not  observe  their 
astonishment.  Indeed,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  he 
remembered  that  any  one  was  near  him  ;  for  he  quoted 
once  or  twice  a  Latin  sentence,  pressed  a  concealed 
spring  or  two  in  some  of  the  instruments,  which  shot 
out  their  steel  talons  at  his  touch,  and  in  a  word 
performed  such  other  marvels,  as  occasioned  a  consid- 
erable sensation  among  his  spectators.  If  the  truth 
must  be  told,  they  all  huddled  together  more  closely 
than  before,  and  avoided  coming  in  contact  even  with 
the  tail  of  his  coat. 

All  this  could  not  last  long,  the  more  especially  as 
the  little  busy  landlady  had  done  her  best  in  the  mean 
time  to  get  the  stranger's  room  in  order,  and  which  she 
announced  as  being  ready  at  the  very  moment  that  he 
was  in  the  midst  of  a  Latin  soliloquy.  This  he  cut 
short  without  ceremony  on  heanng  the  news,  took  up 
his  valise,  instruments,  &c.,  and  quitted  the  kitchen  for 
the  parlor. 

And  now  came  the  time  for  conjecture.  *  WTiat 
could  the  stranger  be  ?  —  a  magician  r  —  an  ogre  ?  — 

a '  but  they  waited  to  see  whether  or  not  he  would 

order  two  or  three  little  children  to  be   roasted  for 


A    SHORT    MYSTERY.  95 

supper  before  they  resolved  upon  their  conclusions.  In 
the  course  of  a  minute  or  two  he  rang  his  bell,  and,  to 
their  great  disappointment,  ordered  a  fowl  and  a  bottle 
of  wine  to  be  got  ready  ;  —  absolutely  nothing  more. 
This  perplexed  the  Rubelanders  almost  as  much  as  the 
curious  instruments  which  he  had  exhibited.  On  con- 
sideration, however,  they  thought  that  the  stranger's 
caution  had  probably  put  a  rein  upon  his  appetite,  and 
that  he  had  contented  himself  for  once  with  vulgar 
fare. 

But  it  is  not  my  intention  to  speculate  on  all  the 
speculations  which  entered  into  the  heads  of  the  vil- 
lagers of  Rubeland.  It  is  sufficient  for  my  present 
purpose  to  state,  that  by  a  natural  turn  of  conversation 
the  villagers  began  to  consider  how  they  might  best- 
turn  the  visit  of  the  stranger  to  account.  Some  pro- 
posed that  he  should  sow  the  great  common  with  florins, 
another  that  he  should  disclose  where  the  great  pots  of 
money  lay  that  were  hid  by  the  elves,  when  a  band  of 
those  malicious  wretches  was  dispersed  by  Saint  Some- 
body during  the  time  of  Henry  the  Fowler.  At  last 
old  Schwartz,  the  only  man  who  had  a  glimmering  of 
common  sense  in  the  room,  suggested  that  he  should  be 
requested  to  visit  the  cottage  of  young  Rudolph,  who 
lay  tormented  with  visions  and  spirits,  about  a  mile  off 
the  village.  And  the  reason  why  Schwartz  proposed 
this  was,  as  he  said,  '  because  he  observed  the  old  gen- 
tleman put  his  hand  upon  the  pulse  of  the  landlady's 
daughter,  and  keep  it  there  as  though  he  were  in 
count,  at  the  time  he  left  the  kitchen.  Although  this 
was  a  sad  descent  from  the  florins  and  pots  of  gold, 
the  influence  of  Schwartz  was  considerable  among  his 


96  A    SHOKT    MYSTERY. 

fellows,  and  he  finally  prevailed.  The  stranger  was 
petitioned  to  visit  the  pillow  of  Rudolph,  and  the  sick 
man's  state  described  to  him.  He  immediately  and 
almost  joyfully  consented.  He  only  stipulated  for  the 
two  wings  and  breast  of  the  chicken,  and  half  a  dozen 
glasses  of  Grafenburg,  and  then  he  said  '  he  should  be 
ready.' 

I  must  now  transport  the  reader  from  the  little 
inn  of  Rubeland  to  the  cottage  of  Rudolph,  the  patient. 
He  will  imagine  the  stranger  recruited  by  a  good  sup- 
per and  some  excellent  Grafenburg  wine,  and  see  him 
seated  by  the  bedside  of  the  young  peasant,  holding  his 
wrist  gently  in  one  hand,  and  inquiring  cheerfully  into 
the  nature  of  his  ailment.  Although  he  could  get  no 
definite  answer  on  this  point,  Rudolph  was  ready 
enough  to  tell  his  story,  and  the  stranger  very  wisely 
let  him  proceed.  If  the  reader  can  summon  up  as 
much  patience  as  the  stranger  did,  he  may  listen  to  the 
present  narrative.  These  are  the  very  words,  —  (for 
the  stranger,  being  a  plain-spoken  man,  thought  it  well 
to  note  down  the  particular  words  of  the  sufl^erer,  in 
order  to  show  the  strength  of  the  impressions  which  had 
been  made  upon  his  brain) :  — 

'  It  was  a  stormy  night  on  which  I  married  Elfrid, 
the  widow's  child.  We  had  been  made  one  by  the 
priest  at  the  neighboring  church,  just  before  twilight ; 
and  during  the  ceremony  my  bride  shivered  and  turned 
aside  from  the  holy  water,  and  her  eyes  glistened  like 
the  lights  of  the  glow-worm,  and  when  it  was  ended  she 
laughed  aloud.  The  priest  crossed  himself;  and  I, 
while  my  heart  sank  within  me,  took  home  the  beauty 
of  the  village. 


A    SHORT    MYSTERY.  97 

'  No  one  knew  how  the  mother  of  ETrid  had  lived. 
She  dwelt  in  a  fair  cottage,  round  which  wild  flowers 
blossomed,  and  the  grape-vines  ran  curling  like  green 
serpents.  She  was  waited  on  by  an  old  Spanish  woman, 
but  never  went  abroad.  She  paid  regularly  for  every 
article  which  she  bought,  and  spent  freely  though  not 
prodigally.     Some  said   that  she  received  a  pension- 

from  the  Elector  of ;  others  that  strange  noises 

were  heard  on  the  quarter  days  in  her  house,  and  that 
her  money  was  paid  at  midnight ! 

*  She  had  only  one  child,  —  Elfrid  ;  a  pale  and  mel- 
ancholy girl,  whose  eyes  were  terribly  lustrous,  and 
whose  hair  was  dark  as  the  plumage  of  the  raven.  She 
walked  with  a  slow  majestic  pace  :  she  seldom  spoke  ; 
but  when  she  spoke,  it  was  sweetly  though  gravely ; 
and  she  sang  sometimes,  when  the  tempest  was  loudest, 
in  strange  tones  which  seemed  almost  to  belong  to  the 
winds.  Yet  she  was  gentle,  charitable,  and,  had  she 
frequented  the  village  church,  would  have  been  univer- 
sally beloved.  I  became  the  lover  of  the  widow's  child. 
I  loved  her  first  one  stormy  autumn  —  I  forget  how 
many  moons  ago  —  but  it  was  soon  after  I  received  this 
wound  in  the  forehead  by  a  fall  in  the  Hartz.  I  was 
dissuaded  from  marrying  her,  for  I  had  deserted  a 
tender  girl  for  her;  but  my  mad  passion  prevailed,  and 
I  took  my  young  wife,  Elfrid,  home,  to  a  cottage  on 
the  banks  of  the  solitaiy  Lake  of  Erloch. 

'  Come  near  me,  my  sweet  bride,'  I  said ;  but  she 
sate  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  knees,  and  looked 
upward,  yet  half  aside,  as  though  she  were  tiying  to 
distinguish  some  voice  amidst  the  storm.  "'Tis  only 
the  raging  of  the  wind,  my  love,"  said  I.     "  Hush  !  " 

VOL.   I.  7 


98  A   SHORT   MYSTERY. 

answered  she,  "  this  is  my  wedding  song.  Why  is  my 
brother's  voice  not  amongst  them  ?  "  And  she  sate  still, 
like  a  shape  of  alabaster,  and  the  black  hair  streamed 
over  her  shoulders  ;  and  methought  she  looked  like  that 
famous  Sibyl  who  offered  to  the  proud  Tarquin  her 
terrible  books.  And  I  began  to  fear  lest  I  had  married 
a  daemon  of  the  air ;  and  sometimes  I  expected  to  see 
her  dissolve  in  smoke,  or  be  borne  off  on  the  wings  of 
the  loud  blast. 

'  And  so  she  sate  for  a  long  time,  pale  and  speechless ; 
but  still  she  seemed  to  listen,  and  sometimes  turned  a 
quick  ear  round,  as  though  she  recognised  a  human 
voice.  At  last  the  wind  came  sighing,  and  moaning, 
and  whining  through  the  door  and  casements,  and  she 
cried  —  "  Ho,  ho  !  are  you  there,  brother  ?  It  was  well 
done,  indeed,  to  leave  my  husband  here,  without  a  song 
at  his  wedding."  And  she  smiled,  and  clapped  her 
hands,  and  sang  —  oh  !  it  was  like  a  dirge  —  low,  hum- 
ming, indistinct  noises  seemed  to  proceed  from  her 
closed  lips ;  and  her  cheeks  brightened,  and  her  eyes 
dilated,  and  she  waved  her  white  hand  up  and  down, 
and  mimicked  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  wind. 

*  We  were  alone  in  our  lonely  cottage.  I  know  not 
how  it  was,  but  we  were  alone.  My  brothers  had  not 
come  to  me,  and  my  sister  lay  at  home  ill.  '"Tis  a 
wild  night,  my  lovely  Elfrid,"  said  I ;  and  she  smiled 
and  nodded,  and  I  ran  my  fingers  through  her  dark 
hair ;  and  while  I  held  up  a  massy  ringlet,  the  wind 
came  and  kissed  it  till  it  trembled.  "  Oh !  are  you 
there  ?  "  said  my  bride  ;  and  I  told  her  I  had  lifted  up 
the  black  lock :  but  she  said  that  it  was  not  I,  but 
another. 


A    SHORT    MYSTERY.  99 

*  Then  we  heard  the  sobbing  and  swelling  of  the 
lake,  and  the  rushing  of  the  great  waves  into  the  creeks, 
and  the  collecting  and  breaking  up  of  the  billows  upon 
the  loose  pebbly  shore.  And  sometimes  they  seemed 
to  spit  their  scorn  upon  the  winds,  and  to  lash  the  large 
trunks  of  the  forest  trees.  And  I  said,  "  I  almost  fear 
for  thee,  my  Elfrid,  for  the  lake  sounds  as  though  it 
would  force  its  banks," — and  she  smiled.  "The 
spirits  of  the  waiter  are  rebellious  to-night,"  exclaimed 
she  :  "  their  mistress,  the  moon,  is  away,  and  they 
know  not  where  to  stop.  Shall  we  blow  them  back  to 
their  quiet  places  ?  "  I  replied  that  it  would  be  well, 
were  it  possible  ;  and  she  lifted  up  her  hand,  and  cried 
"  Do  ye  hear  ?  "  —  and  the  wind  seemed  to  answer 
submissively ;  and  then  suddenly  it  grew  loud,  and 
turned  round  and  round  like  a  hurricane,  and  we  heard 
the  billows  go  back,  and  back — and  the  lake  seemed 
to  recede,  and  the  waters  grew  gentle,  and  then  quiet ; 
and  at  last  there  was  deep  and  dark  silence  all  around 
me  and  my  bride. 

*  And  then  it  was  that  I  lighted  a  torch,  and  our  sup- 
per was  spread.  The  cold  meats  and  dainties  were  laid 
upon  a  snow-white  cloth,  and  the  bright  wines  sparkled 
like  the  eyes  of  Elfrid.  I  took  her  hand  and  kissed 
her,  but  her  lips  felt  like  the  cold  air.  "  Rudolph,  my 
fond  husband,"  said  she,  "I  am  wholly  thine  ;  but  thou 
hast  not  welcomed  me  hither  with  a  song.  It  is  the 
custom  where  I  was  born,  and  I  must  not  be  wholly 
thine  without  it."  —  "  What  shall  I  sing  ?  "  inquired  I. 
"  Oh  !  "  said  she,  "  the  matter  may  be  what  you  please, 
but  the  manner  must  be  mine.  Let  it  be  free  thus  — 
thus  "  —  (and  she  sang  a  strange  burial  chant)  — "  thus, 


100  A    SHORT    MYSTERY. 

—  rising  and  falling  like  the  unquiet  tempest."  I 
essayed  a  few  words  —  but  they  were  troubled  and 
spiritless  — 

"  My  love,  my  love,  so  beautiful,  so  wise ! 
I'll  sing  to  thee,  beneath  the  dawning  moon, 
And  blow  my  pastoral  reed 
In  the  cold  twilight,  till  thine  eyes  shine  out 
Like  blue  stars  sparkling  in  thy  forehead  white. 
I  '11  sing  to  thee,  until  thy  cloudy  hair 
Dissolve  before  my  kisses  pure  and  wrfTm. 
Oh !  as  the  rose-fed  bee  doth  sing  in  May, 
To  thee,  my  January  flower,  lUl  sing 
Many  a  winter  melody. 

Such  as  comes  sighing  through  the  bending  pines, 
Mournfully,  —  mournfully. 

And  through  the  pillar'd  beeches  stripped  of  leaves 
Makes  music,  tin  the  shuddering  water  speaks 
In  ripples  on  the  trembling  forest's  shores  —  " 

"  Away !  "  said  my  bride,  interrupting  my  song,  —  "  Away  ! 

Thou  hast  wed  the  wind,  thou  hast  wed  the  air  — 

Thy  bride  is  as  false  as  fair :  — 

As  the  dew  of  the  dawn 

Beneath  the  sun, 

Is  her  life,  which  beginneth  afresh 

"When  day  is  done. 

I  am  fashion'd  of  water  and  night, 

Of  the  vapor  that  haunts  the  brain  — 

I  die  at  the  dawn  of  light, 

But  at  eve  —  I  revive  again! 

Like  a  spirit  who  comes  from  the  rolling  river, 

Changing  for  ever,  —  for  ever,  —  ever !  " 

And  she  muttered  again,  and  again  —  "for  ever,"  — 
and  "ever!"  And  even  as  she  sang,  methought  her 
long  arms  grew  colder,  and  longer,  and  clasped  me 
round  and  round,  like  the  twining  of  the  snake  or  the 


A    SHORT    MYSTERY.  101 

lizard.  I  shrank  from  her  in  terror,  when  she  laughed 
once  more  in  her  unearthly  way,  and  showed  her  white 
teeth  in  anger.  "Dost  thou  not  love  me,  Elfrid?" 
said  I ;  —  and  she  laughed  again,  and  a  thousand 
voices,  which  then  seemed  to  invest  our  cottage  on 
every  side,  laughed  fiercely  and  loudly,  till  our  dwell- 
ing, shook  to  its  centre.  "Ah,  ha!  dost  thou  hear 
them  ?  "  said  she  —  "  Love  thee  !  Can  the  wind  love 
thee  ?  —  or  the  air  ?  —  or  the  water  ?  Can  fire  delight 
in  thee  ?  But,  ay :  that,  with  its  flickering  voice  and 
curling  tongue,  may  embrace  thee,  as  it  clasps  the 
heretic  martyrs;  but  no  further.  The  elements  are 
above  thee,  thou  youth  of  clay !  Why  wouldst  thou 
tempt  them,  fond  thing,  by  linking  thy  short  life  to 
their  immortality  ? "  And  as  she  spoke,  she  kissed  me 
for  the  first  time  with  her  chilling  lips,  and  whispered 
over  me,  and  I  sank  shivering  into  another  life. 

'And  in  this  state  I  have  seen  more  than  ever 
met  the  eye  of  man.  1  have  seen  the  rack  stoop 
down,  and  the  whirlwind  pause,  and  the  stars  come 
about  me,  by  hundreds  and  thousands,  hurrying  and 
glancing.  Dumb  nature  has  spoken  before  me,  and 
the  strange  language  of  animals  has  become  clear.  I 
have  looked  (as  the  Dervise  did)  into  the  hollow  earth, 
and  there  beheld  dull  metals  and  flaming  minerals, 
gold  and  rubies,  silver,  and  chrysolites,  and  amethysts, 
all  congregated  in  blazing  heaps.  I  have  seen  the 
earthquake  struggling  in  his  cavern  like  a  beast.  I 
have  communed  with  unknown  natures,  and  sate  by 
the  Dropsy  and  the  awful  Plague.  And  once  me- 
thought  we  went  out — I  and  my  bride  —  into  some 
forest  which  had  no  end,  and  walked  among  multitudes 


102  A    SHORT    MYSTERY. 

—  millions  of  trees.  The  broad  great  oak  was  there, 
with  his  rugged  trunk  and  ponderous  arms,  which  he 
stretched  out  over  us :  the  witch  elms  waved  and  whis- 
pered, and  the  willow  fawned  upon  us  and  shook  its 
dishevelled  hair :  we^  heard  the  snake  rustling  in  the 
grass,  and  saw  his  glittering  eyes  and  leper's  coat ; 
and  he  writhed  and  curled  before  us  on  our  path,  as 
though  some  unseen  dominion  were  upon  him ;  and 
the  owl  laughed  at  us  from  his  hole ;  and  the  nightin- 
gale sang  in  the  pine :  and  some  birds  there  were 
which  gave  us  welcome,  and  hundreds  chattered  in  the 
abundance  of  their  joy.  All  this  while  my  bride  was 
silent,  and  paced  slowly  beside  me,  upon  the  green- 
sward. And  she  never  lifted  her  pallid  face  from  the 
ground,  though  I  asked  earnestly,  again  and  again, 
how  it  was  that  the  brute  creatures  had  awakened  from 
their  dumb  trance,  and  stood  up  before  us  with  the 
intelligence  of  man ! 

*  Once,  in  every  month,  when  the  white  moon  grows 
round,  and  casts  down  her  floods  of  cold  light  upon 
the  fields  and  rivers,  until  the  waters  dance  and  the 
branches  quiver  with  intense  delight.  She  comes  to  my 
bedside,  and  still  bends  over  me.  Then,  while  I  lie 
motionless,  though  away,  she  kisses  my  lips  with  so 
cold  a  kiss,  that  methinks  I  am  frozen  inwards  to  the 
heart.  And  my  head  —  my  head  is  a  burning  ball  — 
ha,  ha !  —  you  should  come  to  me  when  the  moon  is 
ripe.  Then  you  shall  see  the  gambols  of  the  water- 
elves  —  and  the  spirits  who  ride  upon  the  storm-winds 

—  and  the  mermen,  —  and  the  unnatural  sights  of  the 
deep  black  ocean  —  and  the  hell  that  is  always  about 


A    SHORT    MYSTERY.  103 

me !      Will   you    come,    and    look    at    the   wonders 
which  I  will  show  you  ?     Will  you  come  — ' 

*  Let  me  look  upon  your  forehead,'  said  the 
stranger,  when  the  faintness  which  here  seized  Ru- 
dolph had  put  an  end  to  his  tale.  '  Methinks  the  error 
is  here,  rather  than  in  the  moon.' 

'  Is  there  any  hope  that  I  shall  be  disenchanted  .? ' 
inquired  the  youth  faintly. 

' W^e  will  see,'  replied  the  stranger.  'You  must  have 
patience  and  water-diet.  You  must  be  obedient,  too, 
to  those  whom  I  shall  bid  attend  you  ;  and  —  but  at 
present  we  will  tie  a  string  round  your  arm  and  see  of 
what  color  is  the  blood  of  an  elf.' 

'  Shall  I  be  free  ?  '  reiterated  the  youth ;  *  I  have 
cursed ' 

*  Have  you  prayed  ?  '  asked  my  uncle  Wilhelm  ; 
(for  he  was,  as  will  be  remembered,  the  stranger  of 
the  inn)  — '  have  you  prayed  ? ' 

'  That  never  occurred  to  me,'  said  the  young 
peasant,  as  his  blood  ran  freely  upon  the  puncture 
of  my  uncle's  lancet — 'that  certainly  never  occurred 
to  me ;  but  I  will  try.' 

*  In  the  mean  time,'  observed  my  uncle,  '  I  will  do 
my  best ;  and  it  shall  go  hard  but  we  will  conquer  the 
elves.' 

And,  in  fact,  my  uncle  Wilhelm  did  finally  pre- 
vail. The  peasant  Rudolph  recovered,  and  wedded 
the  girl  whose  society  he  had  once  forsaken.  What 
became  of  Elfrid,  or  whether  she  existed  at  Rubeland, 
or  elsewhere,  I  never  was  able  to  learn.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  she  was  but  a  fiction  —  a  distinct  one,  un- 


104  A    SHORT    MYSTERY. 

doubtedly  —  but,  probably,  like  many  others  of  the 
spirits  of  the  Hartz :  nay,  it  is  not  impossible,  even, 
but  that  she  may  have  arisen  from  that  very  tumble 
vk'hich  our  friend  Rudolph  had  amongst  those  cele- 
brated mountains. 

'  A  lancet,  a  blister,  and  a  gallon  or  two  of  barley- 
water,'  my  uncle  Wilhelm  used  to  assert,  '  would 
put  to  flight  the  most  formidable  band  of  elves  or 
spirits  that  ever  infested  a  German  district;'  and,  to 
say  truth,  I  begin  almost  to  renounce  my  old  faith  in 
those  matters,  and  to  come  round  to  my  uncle's 
opinion. 

1823. 


THE  PORTRAIT  ON  MY  UNCLE'S  SNUFF- 
BOX. 

AN   ANECDOTE. 

We  were  sitting  over  our  wine,  one  winter's  evening, 
about  six  or  seven  years  ago,  in  the  old  oak  parlor,  at 
my  uncle's  house  in  Cheshire.  We  had  drawn  our 
chairs  round  the  hearth,  upon  which  some  crackling 
feggots  were  blazing ;  and  formed  a  semicircle  of  merry 
hearts,  as  well  disposed  to  enjoy  ourselves  and  our 
host's  twenty-years-old  port,  as  perhaps  had  ever  met 
together.  The  chestnuts  were  hot,  the  claret  (true 
Lafitte)  was  first  uncorked,  and  breathed  out  its  deli- 
cious odors,  like  a  liquid  nosegay.  The  Madeira,  which 
had  been  tossed  about  in  the  Indian  seas  till  it  had 
grown  as  old  as  a  nabob,  had  made  one  circuit  of  the 
company.  In  short,  we  had  just  settled  ourselves  com- 
fortably, and  were  beginning  to  compliment  the  Colonel 
upon  the  flavor  of  his  mutton,  (his  own  killing,)  when 
one  of  the  party  took  notice  of  a  portrait  upon  the 
family  snufT-box,  that  was  performing  the  usual  course 
round  the  table. 

'  'T  is  the  portrait  of  my  grandfather,  Walter  Bethel,' 
said  my  uncle. 


106  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

'  It  wears  a  clever,  lively  look,'  observed  the  other. 

*  True,'  replied  my  uncle.  '  Nevertheless,  in  his 
youth,  he  was  subject  to  great  fluctuation  of  spirits  ; 
and  indeed,  at  one  time,  was  in  a  state  of  despondency. 
This,  as  will  readily  be  imagined,  was  owing  to  —  love. 
Love  !  the  Urchin  !  the  God !  the  theme  of  poets  ! 
the  scorn  of  philosophers  !  after  conquering  Caesar  and 
Antony,  and  converting  popes  and  priests  to  the  re- 
ligion of  the  laity,  suddenly  stooped  from  his  altitudes, 
and  pounced  upon  the  heart  of  Mr.  Walter  Bethel.' 

'  There  is  a  family  story,'  said  I,  '  connected  with 
the  old  gentleman's  love-suit.  You  have  once  or  twice 
threatened  to  tell  me  the  particulars,  if  you  recollect, 
and  stopped  only  because  there  was  a  dearth  of  listen- 
ers.    Why  not  let  us  hear  them  now  ?  ' 

The  company  seconded  my  suggestion  as  clamor- 
ously as  could  be  desired  ;  whereupon  my  uncle,  after 
the  due  number  of  excuses  expected  on  such  occasions, 
detailed  to  us  the  following  facts.  I  shall  take  the 
liberty  of  using  Colonel  Bethel's  own  words ;  so  that 
the  reader  will  imagine  that  he  hears  him  speaking. 

'  The  parents  of  my  grandfather,'  he  began,  '  were 
stout  Hanoverians.  Their  professions  of  loyalty  and 
Protestantism  were  not  merely  lip-deep  matters.  They 
were  loyal  and  Protestant  to  the  backbone,  —  to  the 
core  of  the  heart,  —  to  wherever  else  the  recess  is, 
where  integrity  (or  rather  falsehood)  is  supposed  to 
lurk.  They  drank  the  health  of  King  George  and  the 
Protestant  ascendency  in  endless  bumpers  of  stern 
March  beer.  They  propagated  their  principles  among 
their  friends ;  they  whipped  them  into  their  children; 
they   taught   them  to   their   servants.     Little  tottering 


MY    uncle's    snuff    BOX.  107 

urchins,  a  foot  high,  who  were  learning  "  their  duty  to 
their  neighbor,"  learned,  at  the  same  time,  to  hate  a 
Jacobite  with  all  their  heart  and  with  all  their  strength. 
Their  first  lesson,  when  they  got  into  three  syllables, 
was,  "  D  —  nat  —  n  to  the  house  of  Stuart !  "  in  other 
respects,  their  education  was  not  conducted  on  a  strict 
plan.  In  regard  to  my  grandfather,  who  was  in  his 
later  years  (I  am  sorry  to  say)  an  occasional  swearer, 
—  he  always  traced  his  infirmity  to  his  having  been 
encouraged  at  three  years  old  to  bawl  forth,  "  C  —  e  the 
Pretender ! "  He  derived  this  small  accomplishment 
from  the  stable-boy,  and  it  was  considered  dangerous 
to  attempt  to  extinguish  it  by  reproof.  "  We  may  pull 
up  the  flower  and  the  weed  together,"  said  his  father : 
so  my  grandfather  remained  somewhat  of  a  swearer. 

'In  the  year  1746,  his  parents  dwelt  and  had  dwelt 
for  some  years  near  the  small  town  of  Calne,  in  Wilt- 
shire. At  present,  this  place  is  remarkable  for  little 
else  than  certain  clothiers'  manufactories,  which  supply 
fashionable  tailors  and  ambitious  beaux  with  the  bluest 
and  best  of  cloth.  A  little  puzzling,  brawling  rivulet, 
called  the  Marden,  intersects  the  town,  and  assists  in 
turning  various  fulling  or  clothing  mills ;  which,  in 
requital  for  its  services,  bestow  upon  it  large  quantities 
of  deep  blue  dye,  putting  to  shame  not  only  the  skies 
above  but  even  the  brilliant  water-color  drawings  of 
which  young  ladies,  and  their  parents,  are  sometimes 
so  justly  proud.  The  inhabitants  of  Calne  are  quiet, 
industrious  people.  They  talk  politics  but  little,  play 
at  whist  capitally,  and  have  the  best  strong  beer  in 
the  world.  I  do  not  know  who  is  the  parson,  or  the 
doctor,  or  the  lord  of  the  manor  ;  but  the  lawyer  (Mr. 


108  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

A n)  is  one  of  the  best-hearted  and  clearest-headed 

men  that  even  the  law  can  boast  of. 

'  Circumstances,  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  trouble 
you  with  at  present,  transferred  our  family  from  Wilt- 
shire to  Cheshire,  about  fifty  summers  ago.  But  in 
the  year  1743,-4,-5,  and  6,  they  dwelt  on  the  banks 
(as  the  novelists  say)  of  the  Marden,  within  the  sub- 
urbs of  the  town  of  Calne.  At  that  day  politics  ran 
high  throughout  the  country ;  and  in  Calne,  they  ran 
higher  than  in  other  places.  The  tailor,  the  butcher, 
the  baker  were  afflicted  with  the  epidemic.  The  less 
people  had  to  do  with  the  matter,  the  more  furious  they 
became.  A  leash  of  tailors,  and  a  brace  of  bakers, 
(stitched  and  kneaded  up  together  and  called  "The 
Club,")  determined  to  settle  the  question  in  favor  of  the 
house  of  Hanover.  A  bunch  of  gardeners  opposed 
them  on  the  Stuart  side.  Each  man  was  for  "  the 
right,"  and  for  that  reason  they  all  neglected  their 
business,  and  in  twelve  months  were  supported  at  the 
expense  of  the  parish.  This  they  called  suffering  for 
their  country.  But  the  people  on  hoth  sides  suffered 
for  their  country,  which  was  odd  enough.  Yet  their 
country  never  knew  it  till  this  moment,  when  I  un- 
willingly proclaimed  its  ingratitude.  However,  there 
were  some  more  efficient  adherents  to  the  house  of 
Stuart  and  Hanover,  as  will  be  supposed.  Among 
these  was  a  Mr.  Campbell,  a  Scotchman  by  birth,  an 
advocate  by  education,  (he  had  retired  from  the  bar  on 
a  small  fortune,)  and  as  completely  cased  in  Jacobitism 
as  the  king  of  Denmark  was  in  steel,  namely,  "  from 
top  to  toe," 

*  It  is  a  little  singular,  that  this  gentleman  should 


MY  uncle's  snuff-box.  109 

become  the  intimate  friend  of  loyal  Mr.  Bethel,  a 
Protestant :  but  so  it  was.  Matters  of  opinion,  to  be 
sure,  interfered  occasionally  with  this  intimacy,  and 
political  jars  sometimes  even  threatened  to  shake  the 
foundations  of  their  friendship,  but  on  the  whole  they 
went  on  pretty  smoothly,  and  had  a  most  sincere 
respect  for  each  other, 

'  As  Mr.  Bethel,  the  Hanoverian,  had  a  son,  (my 
grandfather  who  was  heir  of  his  acres,)  so  Mr.  Camp- 
bell the  Jacobite  had  a  daughter,  as  fair  as  Eve,  and 
the  sole  stay  and  solace  of  his  home.  What  was  to  be 
expected  in  such  a  case  ?  My  grandfather  fell  over 
head  and  ears  in  love.  He  was  at  the  mature  age  of 
sixteen ;  so  he  declared  himself,  and  was  —  refused  ! 
If  the  river  Marden  had  been  deep  enough,  the  line  of 
Bethel  had  perhaps  been  extinct.  Fortunately,  it  is  only 
a  little  rippling  stream,  and  being  thereabouts  not  more 
than  four  feet  deep,  was  insufficient  for  the  purposes 
of  the  most  desperate  of  lovers.  My  grandfather 
probably  felt  this  ;  for  after  a  week's  deliberation,  he 
postponed  his  intended  suicide  to  an  indefinite  period, 
or,  as  the  parliamentary  reporters  say,  "sine  die."  In 
the  interim,  he  wisely  set  seriously  to  study,  and  after 
two  years  of  unflinching  reading,  he  was  sent  abroad 
to  travel,  and  remained  in  foreign  countries  two  or 
three  years  more.  Some  time  after  his  departure  Mr. 
Campbell  was  called  suddenly  to  Scotland,  upon  some 
private  business,  relating,  as  he  intimated,  to  a  small 
patrimony  which  he  possessed  in  that  country. 

*  It  was  about  this  time  (viz,  in  1745)  that  the  Cheva- 
lier, Charles  Edward,  made  his  unsuccessful  attempt 
on  the  crown  of  England.     I  am  not  about  to  fatigue 


110  THE    POETRAIT    ON 

you  with  the  particulars  of  this  expedition ;  they  are 
kno\vn  to  every  one  now,  since  the  publication  of  the 
memoirs  of  Mr.  Fergus  Mac-Ivor  and  the  celebrated 
Baron  of  Bradwardine.  I  must  tell  you,  however, 
that  among  the  adherents  of  the  house  of  Hanover, 
there  was  not  one  so  indignant  at  this  invasion  of  the 
country,  as  the  father  of  Mr.  Walter  Bethel.  He 
strapped  his  sword  (a  huge  Toledo)  round  his  loins, 
furbished  up  a  horrible,  wide-mouthed  blunderbuss; 
stuck  a  brace  of  brass-mounted  pistols  in  his  belt,  and 
swore  frightfully,  both  by  St.  George  and  the  Dragon, 
that  he  would  cut  off  the  ears  of  the  first  rebel  who 
dared  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  the  county  of  Wilts. 
Had  he  lived  farther  northward,  there  must  have  been 
bloody  noses  between  Mr.  Stephen  Bethel  and  the 
Jacobites.  As  it  was,  his  anger  exhausted  itself  in 
words ;  a  fortunate  event  for  the  heroes  in  phillibegs 
and  tartans,  and  not  altogether  unlucky  perhaps  for  my 
great-grandfather. 

'  During  the  absence  of  Campbell,  his  daughter  lived 
in  the  house  of  Mr.  Bethel.  My  grandfather  being  at 
this  time  absent  on  his  travels,  there  was  no  objection 
to  this  arrangement  on  her  part ;  and  the  young  lady 
being  a  Protestant  (the  religion  of  her  deceased  mother), 
Mr.  Bethel  felt  no  apprehension  that  his  sober  family 
could  be  tainted  by  the  scarlet  principles  of  the  woman 
of  Babylon. 

'  When  Mary  Campbell  rejected  the  hand  of  my 
grandfather,  he  was,  as  I  have  said,  some  sixteen  years 
of  age,  and  she  herself,  being  as  old  within  twelve 
months,  looked  down  naturally  enough  upon  the  pre- 
tensions of  so  young  a  lover.     Two  or  three  years, 


MY  itncle's  snuff-box.  Ill 

however,  spent  in  studying  books  at  home,  (during 
which  time  he  forbore  to  see  her,)  and  more  than  two 
years  devoted  to  the  study  of  man  abroad,  converted 
Mr.  Waher  Bethel  into  a  promising  cavalier,  and  made 
wonderful  alterations  in  the  opinions  of  the  lady.  At 
the  time  of  my  grandfather's  return,  Mary  Campbell 
was  a  resident  in  his  father's  house,  and  when  the  old 
gentleman,  after  embracing  his  son,  led  him  up  to  his 
fair  guest,  with  "You  remember  my  son  Walter,  my 
dear  Miss  Campbell,"  Miss  Campbell  was  ready  to  sink 
with  confusion.  A  little  time,  however,  sufficed  for  her 
recovery,  and  she  received  my  grandfather's  courtesies 
as  gracefully  as  any  body  could  be  expected  to  do  who 
had  "  never  seen  the  Louvre."  Walter  Bethel  felt  this. 
He  saw  a  distinction,  a  shade  mdeed  between  his  former 
favorite,  and  the  pretty  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Frontac, 
and  La  belle  Marquise  de  Vaudrecour,  but  on  the  whole 
he  was  well  satisfied,  and  it  must  be  added,  not  a  little 
surprised  also.  For  Time,  which  had  been  so  busy  in 
lavishing  accomplishments  on  the  head  of  Mr.  Walter 
Bethel,  having  had  a  little  leisure  to  spare  from  that 
agreeable  occupation,  had  employed  it  very  advantage- 
ously in  improving  the  mind  and  person  of  Mary 
Campbell.  Perhaps  this  might  be  for  the  purpose  of 
once  more  entrapping  her  lover's  heart.  Perhaps  — 
but  it  is  not  easy  to  speak  as  to  this.  The  result  of  her 
improvement,  however,  was  very  speedily  seen.  My 
grandfather  fell  over  head  and  ears  again  in  love  ;  and 
this  time  he  was  destined  to  be  successful. 

*  He  had  not  been  four-and-twenty  hours  at  home 
before  his  "  Miss  Campbell "  expanded  into  "  My  dear 
Miss   Campbell."      This,  in  a   week,   dwindled    into 


112  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

"  Mary,"  which  in  its  turn  blossomed  into  half  a  dozen 
little  tender  titles,  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  any  page 
of  Cupid's  calendar,  with  very  expressive  epithets 
appended  to  each.  I  have  heard  him  tell  the  story  of 
his  offering  his  hand  and  heart  to  my  grandmother, 
while  the  good  old  lady  sate  with  smiling  shining  eyes 
at  his  side,  listening  to  his  rhapsodies,  as  pleased,  I 
verily  believe,  as  she  could  have  been  when  the  offer 
was  actually  made  to  her,  forty  or  fifty  years  before. 

* "  When  I  was  between  sixteen  and  seventeen,"  he 
would  say,  addressing  my  grandmother,  "  You  would 
not  hear  me  attempt  a  single  compliment."  "Oh! 
pardon  me,"  replied  she,  laughing,  "  I  heard  many 
attempts;  the  objection  was,  that  you  never  suc- 
ceeded." "Tut!  Tut!"  retorted  the  old  gentleman; 
"  old  age  has  injured  your  faculties.  You  must  not 
believe  her,  grandson,"  continued  he,  "  for  besides 
composing  two  long  sets  of  hexameters  in  her  praise, 
I  turned  at  least  half  a  dozen  compliments  (to  as  many 
distinct  perfections)  in  the  manner  of  Ovidius  and 
Horatius  Flaccus.  But  it  all  would  not  do.  I  verily 
believe  that  I  should  have  made  no  impression  upon 
her,  had  I  actually  proposed  to  her  in  Latin.  Yet 
observe,  my  dear  Walter,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
impressively ;  "  when  I  returned  from  France  and 
Italy,  things  wore  a  different  aspect.  If  I  sighed,  she 
sighed  too.  If  I  spoke  softly,  she  looked  down  and 
answered  piano.  If  I  pronounced  an  opinion,  she 
acquiesced.  In  short,  froifi  the  very  hour  of  my 
return,  till  the  morning  I  kissed  her  behind  the  par- 
lor door,  and  forced  from  her  a  confession  that   she 


MY  uncle's  snuff-box.  113 

returned  my  regard,  I  was  a  happy,  impudent,  thriving 
lover." 

'  I  could  tell  you  fifty  anecdotes  of  his  wooing  time ; 
for  he  loved  in  his  old  age  to  dilate  upon  it,  and  in  fact 
sent  me  to  sleep,  times  infinite,  with  his  stories,  seldom 
perceiving,  in  his  exultation,  how  indifferent  a  listener 
he  had,  until  he  arrived  at  the  conclusion  of  his  tale. 
I  do  not,  however,  mean  to  inflict  even  one  of  these 
stories  upon  you.  My  grandfather  had  returned  about 
three  months  from  his  travels,  and  was  absolutely 
basking  in  the  sunshine  of  Mary's  eyes,  when  Camp- 
bell (who  had  been  long  absent)  returned  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  from  Scotland.  He  had  formerly 
been  a  tall,  ruddy,  athletic  man,  but  he  came  back 
worn  to  the  bone,  pale,  attenuated,  and  drooping.  He 
had  never  given  up  the  idea,  that  one  day  or  other  the 
House  of  Stuart  would  be  restored  to  what  he  called 
"  its  rights ;  "  and  when  the  invasion  of  Charles 
Edward,  which  had  excited  such  mad  expectation, 
ended  in  the  utter  discomfiture  of  himself  and  his 
adherents,  Campbell  could  scarcely  bear  up  against 
his  great  disappointment.  It  was  asserted  (and  not 
contradicted)  that  his  journey  to  Scotland  had  been  a 
mere  pretext;  that  he  had  been  actually  in  the  thick 
of  the  fights  of  Preston,  Falkirk,  and  CuUoden,  and 
had  been  forced  to  flee  for  his  life  and  to  hide  in 
caves,  and  brakes,  and  desert  places,  from  the  insatia- 
ble fury  of  the  English  troopers. 

'  He  escaped  at  last,  however,  and  arrived  at  Calne  ; 
not  free  from  molestation,  indeed,  for  within  four  and 
twenty  hours  of  his  return,  news  arrived  of  the  ap- 

VOL.   I.  8 


114  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

preach  of  a  detachment,  sent,  as  it  was  said,  (o  scoui 
the  country  of  rebels,  and  charged  with  particular 
instructions  to  seize  upon  our  unhappy  Jacohite.  The 
soldiers  were  luckily  less  eager  than  their  government 
for  the  apprehension  of  rebels.  They  had  already 
made  a  glorious  march  from  Oxford  to  Marlborough, 
without  opposition,  not  an  enemy  daring  to  show  him- 
self; and  content  with  the  bloodless  victoiy,  they 
"  sate  down  "  before  the  Dolj)hin,  at  Marlborough,  as 
though  they  were  to  take  it  by  regular  siege.  The 
landlord,  however,  yielded  up  his  barrels  without  a 
parley.  His  beer  ran  like  a  river,  the  soldiei-s  drank 
it  gallantly,  and  all  thoughts  of  the  Jacobites  were 
speedily  dismissed.  This  could  not  last  for  ever;  and, 
indeed,  so  thought  the  government,  for  they  dispatched 
a  peremptory  mandate  for  their  heroes  to  break  up 
their  quarters  and  proceed  to  business,  and  the  unwil- 
ling heroes  accordingly  prepared  to  obey. 

'  Meantime,  the  state  of  Calne  was  in  commotion. 
As  soon  as  the  news  arrived  that  a  file  of  red-coats 
were  about  to  quit  the  tap  at  Marlborough,  where  they 
had  been  nourishing  their  valor  for  a  week,  by  drink- 
ing success  to  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  (whose  cam- 
paigns were  over,)  all  the  good  people  of  Calne  were 
presently  in  full  debate.  Some  were  indignant,  because 
tliey  were  Jacobites ;  others,  because  they  were  Consti- 
tutionalists ;  some  were  indifferent  because  they  were 
ignorant,  and  some  because  they  were  philosophical. 
The  most  of  them  were,  however,  what  the  govern- 
ment circulars  call  "  animated  with  the  best  inten- 
tions," and  all  were  inclined  to  talk.  Mr.  Stephen 
Bethel  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  amongst  the  fore- 


JIT  jmcu^s  fsmrrV'Box,  115 

roost  and  loudest  of  the  place,  had  he  not  at  that 
instant  been  otherwise  occupied.  The  news  reached 
Mis.  Bediel,  instead  of  himself,  and  the  consequence 
was  what  the  lawyers  call  a  "  stoppa^  in  transitu." 
She  was  unlike  other  women.  She  had  no  care  for 
news,  but  was  content  widi  being  a  fat,  good-humored, 
old-fiuiiioned  lady,  who  made  the  best  gooseberry  wine 
in  die  county.  Her  husiiand,  Mr.  Stephen  Bediel, 
derired  die  only  joke  that  he  was  ever  known  to  po»> 
seas,  from  her  Tirtues,  "  She  was  the  only  belle,"  he 
said,  "diat  be  had  erer  known  without  a  clapper.** 
So  he  talked  enough  for  both. 

'  But  when  die  news  actually  did  come  to  his  ears, 
nodnng  could  surpass  his  indignation.  A  rebel !  A 
JacolMte  !  He  lesol^ed  to  make  one  in  die  chase,  and 
if  possible,  to  be  in  at  die  death.  He  called  to  J<^ 
and  Thomas,  to  William  and  Harry,  and  the  rest :  be 
loaded  Iub  great  blunderbuss ;  he  strapped  on  his  long 
sword ;  he  eren  went  so  far  as  to  have  bk  bone's  tail 
clipped  for  the  occasion,  when  my  grandfather,  who 
bad  taken  things  more  quiedy,  inquired  of  bim,  in  a 
wiusper,  if  it  were  likely  that  the  pemm  whom  the 
red-coals  were  in  search  of  could  be,  by  ai^  poni> 
Inlity,  Mr.  CampbelL  Mr.  Stefrfien  Bediel  actnaHy 
bounded  fiom  the  groond  at  the  snddenneas  of  dm 
qoesdon.  Fat  as  he  bad  long  heen,  lie  positirety 
jumped  vnf  with  alarm.  "It  is  impOfl^Ue,"  said 
he  to  niy  grandfather.  "What!  Maiy*s.&dier ?  It 
ean*t  le.  Waiter!**    But  Waher  though  odierwise. 

'  Mr.  Stephea  B^did  and  bis  son  were,  dmefoie,  at 
imoe.  This  had  h^^iened  not  nnfieqneady  befigie ; 
bitt  m  fiwmer  cases  Ae  £idieralw;^«  coDqnraed.  If  he 


116  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

were  not  the  stoutest  in  argument,  he  was  at  least  the 
first  in  authority ;  and  he  never  failed  to  back  his 
words  by  some  indications  of  his  power.  His  com- 
mands were  added  to  his  arguments,  and  his  son  (as 
dutiful  sons  should  do)  generally  acquiesced.  Besides, 
Mr.  Stephen  Bethel  could  be  a  little  vituperative  at 
times.  He  did  not  excel  in  panegyric ;  but  in  abuse  he 
was  as  strong  as  a  tempest.  His  flowers  of  rhetoric 
flew  about  on  such  occasions,  with  a  violence  that 
nothing  could  equal,  save  the  blast  of  anger  that  pro- 
duced them.  At  present  he  was  not  inclined  to  be  so 
peremptory,  or  his  son  to  be  so  obedient.  In  short, 
notwithstanding  the  denial  of  the  former,  he  felt  that 
his  friend  Campbell  was  in  danger ;  and  now  came  the 
question,  how  to  act  ?  He  could  not  betray  his  friend  ? 
No,  his  whole  soul  rejected  such  base  treachery. 
Neither  could  he  betray  his  sovereign  to  Mr.  Campbell .? 
No,  his  loyalty  cried  out  against  that  also.  Neverthe- 
less, if  there  was  to  be  a  struggle  between  these  rival 
feelings,  he  began  for  the  first  time  to  fear  that  friend- 
ship might  turn  out  predominant. 

'  "  Well,  Walter,  my  boy,  "  said  the  father  to  his  son, 
after  a  long  pause,  and  looking  somewhat  sheepishly, 
"  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

*  "I  think,'  replied  Walter,  "  we  had  better  send  him 
off  to  my  aunt's,  at  Kilmarton.  If  he  were  well  covered 
with  one  of  your  wigs,  Sir  —  " 

'  "Eh!  what?  zounds!"  exclaimed  the  other,  "Do 
you  think.  Sir,  that  I'll  be  accessary  —  do  you  think  that 
I  (a  Bethel !)  will  help  to  conceal  any  one  of  King 
George's  rascally  enemies?  Do  you  think — ?"  Mr. 
Stephen  Bethel  was  lashing  himself  up  with  words  as 


MY  uncle's  snuff-box.  117 

the  lion  does  with  his  tail;  and  there  was  no  knowing 
how  long  he  would  have  gone  on  with  his  "  Do  you 
thinks,"  or  in  fact,  whether  he  ever  would  have 
stopped,  had  not  my  grandfather  very  naturally,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  little  ingeniously  exclaimed  "  Poor 
Mary  !  what  will  she  not  suffer  !  " 

*  Mr.  Stephen  Bethel  was  calm  in  a  moment.  We 
have  heard  how  a  cannon-ball  will  suddenly  put  an  end 
to  the  most  violent  discussion ;  how  the  ducking-stool 
will  all  at  once  quell  the  else  untameable  tongue  of  the 
scold  ;  but  "  Poor  Mary  !  "  —  it  was  the  oil  upon  the 
ocean  of  his  wrath.  He  was  conquered  and  quiet  in 
an  instant. 

*  "  To  sure,"  said  he  faltering,  "  Poor  Mary  !  —  poor 
girl,"  added  he,  almost  whimpering,  — "  'tis  a  pity,  that 
such  a  creature  should  suffer  for  the*  errors  of  her 
father.  As  to  him,  a  foolish,  obstinate,  headstrong  Jaco- 
bite !  But  King  George  is  at  his  heels  —  King  George 
or  King  George's  men,  and  now  we  shall  hear  whether 
he'll  sing  *  The  Cammels  are  coming  ;'  or  cry"  King 
James  and  Proud  Preston '  again  ! " 

*  And  so  the  old  gentleman  veered  about,  from  pity 
to  wrath,  from  loyalty  to  friendship  and  back  again ; 
friendship,  however,  got  the  better  at  last,  and  he  set 
about  helping  Campbell  in  good  earnest.  Walter  was 
allowed  to  convey  to  Campbell  an  intimation  of  his 
danger ;  not  that  the  father  desired  this  in  so  many 
words,  but,  as  he  did  not  absolutely  prohibit  it,  his  son 
interpreted  his  silence  to  his  own  purposes,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  the  house  of  the  unlucky  rebel. 

'  The  first  object  that  struck  his  sight  on  entering 
Campbell's  house,  was  Mary  herself  evidently  in  deep 


118  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

distress.  "  My  dearest  Mary,"  said  he,  putting  his 
arm  gently  round  her  waist. 

'  "  Oh,  Walter,"  replied  she,  sobbing,  "  my  father  ! 
my  poor  father!  That  unfortunate  expedition  of  the 
Prince " 

'  "  Of  the  Pretender  ?"  said  Walter,  inquiringly. 

*  "  Do  not  carp  at  words,"  replied  she.  "  What  does 
it  matter  whether  he  be  Prince  or  Pretender,  now  that 
the  soldiers  are  coming  for  my  dear  father  ?  Oh  !  he 
will  be  taken  !  he  will  be  taken ! "  continued  she, 
weeping  and  wringing  her  hands. 

* "  I  came  to  save  him,"  said  Walter.  "  Be  com- 
forted ;  where  is  he  ?     Is  he  within  ?" 

'  "  He  is  gone,"  answered  she.  "  He  received  the 
news  from  a  friend,  and  had  just  time  to  escape." 

*  "  Tell  me  where  ?  "  said  my  grandfather,  hastily. 

'  "  I  cannot ;  I  must  not !  "  said  she.  "  He  charged 
me  to  keep  his  secret,  and  I  must  do  so  —  even  from 
you;" 

'■"Tie  will  be  found,"  replied  Walter,  in  great  dis- 
tress. "  He  will  be  hunted  by  these  rascals,  and 
found.  Let  him  trust  himself  to  me.  I  know  a  place 
where  he  may  hide  for  a  time,  and  our  well  known 
principles  will  assure  his  final  safety.  If  the  storm 
be  once  blown  over,  my  father  and  uncle  shall  exert 
their  interest  with  the  Duke,  and  all  will  be  well.  So 
take  heart,  my  dearest,  and  tell  me,  without  more 
ado,  where  your  father  is.  Tell  me  as  you  value  his 
life:" 

'  And  she  told,  and  she  did  well  to  tell ;  for,  besides 
that  Campbell's  hiding-place  was  speedily  searched, 
and  that  nothing  short  of  the  character  of  the  Bethels 


MY  uncle's  snuff-box.  119 

would  have  been  sufficient  to  ward  off  the  strict 
inquiries  that  were  elsewhere  made,  it  was  well  that 
the  honesty  of  love  should  not  be  rewarded  with  dis- 
trust. Mary  Campbell  confided  to  her  lover,  not  only 
her  heart,  but  her  father's  life  ;  and  well  was  the  con- 
fidence repaid. 

'  I  must  now  give  up  the  task  of  historian,'  said 
the  colonel,  '  and  let  my  grandfather  tell  you  the  rest 
of  the  story  himself.  It  was  one  of  his  thousand  and 
one  anecdotes,  and  it  was  in  these  words  that  he  was 
accustomed  to  tell  the  story : 

'"The  day"  (he  used  to  begin)  "on  which  the 
soldiers  came  on  their  man-hunt  to  Calne,  was  memor- 
able for  many  a  year.  Both  men  and  the  elements 
seemed  quarrelling  with  each  other.  The  scornful 
Loyalist,  the  desperate  Jacobite,  stood  front  to  front, 
in  flaming,  open  defiance.  The  thunder  muttered  ;  the 
winds  went  raving  about;  and  the  rains,  which  had 
been  falling  heavily  all  night,  and  glittering  in  the 
lightning,  now  came  down  in  cataracts  and  sheets  of 
water.  The  little  runnels  had  grown  into  brooks ;  the 
brooks  were  formidable  rivers.  The  Marden  itself, 
usually  so  unimportant,  had  swollen  and  panted  long  in 
its  narrow  bounds,  till  at  last  it  burst  over  its  banks, 
and  went  flooding  the  country  round.  Notwithstanding 
all  this,  the  hunters  prepared  to  pursue  their  prey. 

'  "  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  chase  even  a  beast  that  flies 
for  its  life ;  but  to  hunt  the  great  animal,  Man,  must 
surely  thrill  and  strike  an  alarm  into  the  heart  of  his 
boldest  pursuer.  What !  he  whom  we  have  smiled 
upon,  whose  hand  we  have  clutched,  whose  cheer  we 
have   enjoyed !  shall  we,  if  he  do  a  desperate  deed 


120  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

which  some  law  forbid,  strip  our  hearts  at  once  of  all 
sympathy,  and  track  him  from  spot  to  spot  —  through 
woods  and  lanes,  and  hollows  and  lonely  places  —  till 
he  fall  into  the  toil  ?  and  then  go  home,  and  be  con- 
tent with  the  abstract  principle  of  justice,  and  forget 
that  we  have  lost  a  friend  for  ever  ! 

*  "  I  had  got  the  start  of  the  red-coats  by  almost  half 
an  hour,  when  1  found  that  I  had  to  encounter  impedi- 
ments that  I  had  not  foreseen.  I  had  set  off  with 
scarcely  any  determined  idea,  except  that  of  saving 
Campbell  at  all  events.  I  took  the  ordinary  road  to 
the  brake,  where  I  knew  that  he  lay  concealed,  striding 
on  at  my  best  pace ;  sometimes  running,  sometimes 
toiling  up  slippery  ascents,  sometimes  plunging  along 
the  plashy  meadows,  till  my  breath  grew  short  and 
painful  from  excess  of  exertion.  I  still  kept  on  my 
course,  however,  and  had  contrived  to  attain  a  lofty 
ridge  of  land,  not  very  distant  from  the  place  of 
refuge,  when  all  at  once  my  eyes  fell  upon  a  broad 
waste  of  water,  a  vast  turbid  stream  rushing  at  random 
over  the  low  country,  and  above  which  nothing  ap- 
peared but  an  occasional  tree,  and  the  long  narrow 
slip  of  wood  and  copse  which  crowned  the  elevated 
piece  of  land,  in  which,  as  I  concluded,  my  friend 
was  hid. 

'  "  If  ever  I  felt  real  despair  it  was  at  that  moment. 
I  stopped  for  an  instant,  a  dreadful  instant,  to  think.  I 
could  not  be  said  to  deliberate.  1  thought  quickly, 
intensely,  with  a  pain  piercing  the  very  centre  of  my 
heart.  In  three  or  four  seconds  of  time  I  had,  with 
the  rapidity  which  fear  produced,  considered  half  a 
dozen  methods  of  passing  the  water.     At  last,  I  recol- 


MY  uncle's  snuff-box.  121 

lected  a  sheep  path,  traversing  a  narrow  neck  of  high 
ground  reaching  to  the  opposite  of  the  inundation, 
which  ahhough  apparently  quite  covered  by  the 
floods,  might  nevertheless  still  enable  me  to  attain 
the  wood.  To  arrive  at  this  path,  it  was  necessary  to 
retrace  three  parts  of  the  space  which  I  had  already 
travelled.  I  turned  my  steps  backward,  therefore, 
instantly,  and  with  great  efforts  arrived  at  the  bridge, 
on  the  skirts  of  the  town,  just  in  time  to  hear  the 
roll  of  the  drum  hard  by,  calling  the  soldiers  to  duty. 
I  fancied  that  I  could  almost  hear  the  click  of  their 
firelocks,  as  they  examined  them,  previously  to  their 
setting  out  in  pursuit  of  Campbell.  'Twas  then  I 
forgot  everything.  My  legs  were  no  longer  cramped  ; 
my  breath,  lately  pent  up  and  laboring  in  my  breast, 
seemed  suddenly  relieved ;  and  I  ran  forwards  with 
increased  speed  for  almost  a  mile,  when  the  footsteps 
of  a  pei-son,  (about  the  size  of  Campbell,)  which  had 
made  deep  impressions  on  a  piece  of  soft  soil,  arrested 
my  attention.  I  saw  from  the  direction  that  this 
person  must  have  left  the  highroad  at  that  spot,  and 
taken  to  the  fields.  I  erased  the  few  marks  as  well  as 
I  could,  and  thrusting  the  spike  of  my  leaping  pole 
into  the  gravel  of  the  road,  I  cleared  the  hedge  at  a 
bound,  without  leaving  a  single  trace  of  my  course, 
and  took  my  way  across  the  fields  in  pursuit  of 
Campbell. 

'  "  For  some  time  no  steps  were  discernible,  for  ray 
route  lay  over  grass  on  which  the  rain  was  still  inces- 
santly falling.  At  last  indications  of  a  footmark  en- 
couraged me,  and  I  continued  to  track  it  sometimes 
readily,  sometimes  with  difiiculty,  (for  it  frequently  dis- 


122  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

appeared)  until  it  led  me  to  the  very  edge  of  the  flood. 
The  man,  whoever  he  was,  must  have  plunged  right 
through  the  waters.  Perhaps  he  had  been  carried 
away.  But  there  was  no  time  for  guessing ;  so  feel- 
ing my  way  with  my  pole,  I  took  to  the  water  myself. 
To  my  surprise  it  was  shallow  enough,  for  a  while, 
scarcely  reaching  above  my  knees.  I  got  on,  therefore, 
readily  enough,  till  I  had  arrived  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  wood,  (the  object  of  my  labors,)  when  the  land 
suddenly  dipped,  and  I  found  myself  in  upwards  of 
four  feet  of  water.  A  few  more  steps  would,  I  knew, 
place  me  on  dry  ground  ;  so  I  strained  onward  across 
the  current,  which  now  ran  with  great  force,  and  after 
a  struggle  or  two  reached  the  wood  in  safety. 

*  "  I  had  just  caught  hold  of  some  long  grass  to 
secure  my  footing,  when  my  attention  was  arrested  by 
a  noise  at  some  distance.  I  threw  myself  on  the  bank 
for  a  single  minute's  rest,  and  heard  distinctly  the 
withered  leaves  and  brambles  crackling  under  a  heavy 
tread,  and  the  hoarse,  thick  breathing  of  some  creature 
apparently  in  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion.  The  horrid 
guttural  sounds,  which  it  gave  out  in  its  agony  (I  heard 
them  at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  yards),  ring  in  my 
ears  to  this  moment.  I  remembered  to  have  heard,  that 
in  Indian  or  African  hunts,  the  enormous  beasts  which 
they  pursue  will  sometimes  thus  breathe  out  their  distress 
before  they  stand  at  bay  and  die.  But  no  such  crea- 
ture could  be  here  ;  so  I  determined  to  follow.  After 
a  few  steps,  I  called  out,  '  Who  goes  ? '  All  was  still 
in  an  instant. 

'  "  My  way  now  lay  across  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
to  the  dingle,  where  I  hoped  to  find  my  friend.    In  my 


MY  uncle's  sntjff-box.  123 

course  I  had  to  pass  by  a  deep  hollow,  which  was 
usually  filled  with  water,  and  which  was  the  haunt  of 
the  water  rat,  the  lizard,  and  the  frogs,  who  kept  their 
court  among  the  flags  and  rushes  there,  I  had  reached 
this  place  and  was  passing  on,  when  a  slight  noise 
induced  me  to  turn  my  head.  The  sound  was  like  the 
cocking  of  a  pistol ;  so  I  made  haste  to  proclaim  my- 
self. 'It  is  I  —  'tis  Walter  Bethel!'  called  I  out 
loudly.  The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  my  mouth, 
when  up  rose,  from  amidst  the  rushes  and  the  green 
stagnant  water,  a  phantom  more  hideous  than  Triton  or 
Nereus  in  his  most  terrible  mood.  Covered  to  the  chin 
with  the  green  mantle  of  the  pool,  his  clothes  soaked 
and  saturated  with  water,  arose  —  with  a  cocked  pistol 
in  each  hand,  and  a  mouth  wide  open  and  gasping  for 
breath  —  my  father-in-law,  Campbell !  He  stared  like  a 
man  bewildered.  *  Well !'  said  he,  at  last,  'twas  all  he 
could  say.  '  I  am  come  to  save  you,'  replied  I :  '  the 
soldiers  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes.  Come  along 
whh  me.'     '  No,'  replied  the  other  :  *  I'll  go  no  further. 

I  can  go  no  further.   I  may  as  well  die  here.   *  By ! ' 

said  I,  *  you  shall  not  die.  Rebel  or  not,  you  are 
Mary  Campbell's  father,  and  while  I  have  a  sinew  left 
you  shall  not  be  taken.'  With  that  I  took  him  upon  my 
back  (fori  was  a  lusty  fellow  then)  and  carried  him  — 
I  know  not  how  —  but  by  several  efforts,  I  believe,  to 
the  extreme  side.  I  was  just  congratulating  myself  on 
my  success,  when  suddenly  I  heard  the  measured  tramp 
of  soldiers  coming  along  a  lane,  which  wound  round  the 
skirt  of  the  copse.  I  had  mistaken  the  way.  I  stopped 
immediately,  and  heard  the  word  *  Halt '  uttered  in  a 
tone  which  struck  to  my  heart.     *  They  are  upon  us,' 


124  THE    PORTRAIT    ON 

whispered  Campbell, '  and  the  only  thing  is  to  die  boldly ! 
Go,  therefore,  my  dear  Walter ;  and  may  God  bless 
you.  Tell  poor  Mary — '  but  here  his  voice  faltered 
and  he  could  only  sigh  out  deeply,  '  God  bless  my  dear 
child  ! ' 

'  "■  There  was  no  time  for  talking,  as  you  will  imagine. 
I  therefore  motioned  him  to  silence  and  drew  him  with 
the  least  possible  noise,  away  from  the  point  of  danger. 
He  was  now  able  to  walk  slowly ;  and  that  was  fortu- 
nately sufficient,  for  the  soldiers  had  stopped  to  delibe- 
rate. We  kept  on,  at  a  steady  quiet  pace,  along  a 
sharp  angle  of  the  wood,  which  terminated  at  a  point 
near  the  Bath  road.  Behind  us  the  voices  of  the  sol- 
diers were  occasionally  heard,  and  once  the  report  of 
a  musket-shot  a  little  disturbed  our  tranquillity.  We 
succeeded,  however,  in  obtaining  the  extreme  point  of 
the  wood  and  were  just  about  to  emerge  into  the  road, 
when  a  heavy  plunge  was  heard  near  us  like  that  of  a 
person  jumping  from  an  eminence  ;  and  the  whistle  of  a 
pistol  bullet  through  the  leaves,  which  quickly  followed, 
reduced  us  to  instant  silence.  Without  uttering  a  sylla- 
ble, I  pulled  Campbell  down  beside  me,  amongst  the 
fern  and  rank  grass  that  grew  all  about,  and  there  lay 
for  two  or  three  dreadful  minutes,  till  our  enemy  had 
passed  onwards.  I  had  flung  Campbell  so  completely 
prostrate  that,  he  averred,  he  was  obliged  to  make  no 
inconsiderable  meal  of  fern  and  dock  leaves,  before  he 
could  breathe  with  comfort.  However  this  was,  we  soon 
rose  up,  as  soon  as  prudently  we  could  do  so,  con- 
trived to  drop  a  fragment  of  Campbell's  dress  on  the 
Chippenham  road,  and,  after  seeing  our  pursuers  take 
the  bait  and  proceed  southwards,  we  turned  our  backs 


MY  uncle's  snuff-box.  125 

upon  danger  and  the  detachment,  and  reached  Kilmar- 
ton  m  safety." 

My  uncle  now  took  up  the  conclusion  of  the  tale,  the 
latter  part  of  which  he  had  told  in  the  words  of  Walter 
Bethel. 

'  Campbell,'  resumed  the  Colonel,  was  saved.  A 
little  time  sufficed,  as  my  grandfather  had  predicted,  to 
put  an  end  to  the  hanging  of  the  Jacobites.  General 
Bethel,  a  firm  and  loyal  friend  of  the  existing  govern- 
ment, was  won  over,  after  some  entreaty  to  petition  for 
the  pardon  of  Campbell ;  for  he  was  one  who  had  been 
excepted  out  of  the  list  of  those  forgiven.. 

'  "  He  is  a  flaming,  furious  Jacobite,"  said  General 
Bethel,  to  his  favorite,  Walter,  in  reply  to  his  request ; 
"  a  troublesome  fellow  he  is,  Walter,  and  deserves  to 
suflTer." 

'  "  He  is  Mary's  father,  my  dear  uncle,"  said  my 
grandfather  insinuatingly. 

'  "  You  are  a  fool,  Walter,"  replied  the  general,  tartly; 
"  at  your  age  you  ought  to  be  marching  at  the  head  of 
a  file  of  grenadiers,  instead  of  wasting  your  time  and 
making  love,  and  —  Pshaw  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

*  "  But  my  dear  uncle  "  —  Walter  was  proceeding  in 
extenuation. 

'  "  Why  don't  you  come  up  to  town,  sir  ? "  inquired 
the  general,  with  some  sternness.  "  I  have  no  doubt 
that  I  can  get  you  a  commission  in  a  couple  of  months, 
and  a  company  before  you  deserve  one." 

'  "  My  dear  general,"  said  his  nephew  once  more, 
calmly,  "  I  thank  you  for  the  interest  that  you  take  in 
me  ;  but  my  ambition  is  for  the  toga  —  the  gown.  I 
am  for  civil,  while  you  are  for  military  fame.     In  the 


126    THE  PORTRAIT  ON  MY  UNCLE's  SNUFF-BOX. 

former,  perhaps,  I  may  become  the  first  of  my  house ; 
but  in  the  latter  I  must  for  ever  remain  echpsed  by 
your  greater  reputation." 

'  "  Vou  are  a  goose,  Walter,"  replied  his  uncle  laugh- 
ing, and  pinched  his  ear  :  and  Walter  laughed  merrily 
too ;  for  by  compliment  he  saw  that  Campbell  would 
obtain  his  pardon. 


1828. 


A  DAY  IN  VENICE. 


It  sometimes  happens,  that  a  circumstance  which  is 
little  better  than  trivial  in  itself,  derives  an  interest  from 
the  simple  or  earnest  manner  of  the  speaker.     I  have 

heard  the  present  Sir  A C narrate  a  fact, 

of  no  great  moment,  with  such  dramatic  effect,  as  to 
excite  and  maintain  a  thrilling  interest  in  the  mind  of 
every  person  present.  He  reanimates  an  old,  dead, 
unprofitable  anecdote  in  a  way  that  is  really  marvel- 
lous ;  throwing  himself,  as  it  were,  into  the  story,  and 
giving  it  life,  as  the  Arabian  magician  revived  the 
stricken  fawn,  to  give  pleasure  to  the  Queen  whom  he 
loved. 

With  something  of  the  same  talent,  but  with  less 
effect,  the  following  account  of  a  visit  made,  in  times 
past,  to  Venice,  was  related  to  me.  The  manner  of 
telling  it  excited  in  me,  at  the  time,  no  inconsiderable 
interest.  1  shall  fail  probably  in  communicating  much 
of  this;  but  I  will  at  all  events  not  occupy  any  serious 
portion  of  the  reader's  patience.  And  now,  as  Mark 
Antony  says,  *  Lend  me  your  ear.' 

It  must  be  upwards  of  forty  years  ago,  since  a  lady, 
then  rich  and  graceful,  was  travelling  with  her  husband 


128  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

to  Venice.  She  was  very  young,  and  had  been  but 
lately  married  ;  and  she  went  abroad  to  gather  happi- 
ness in  whatever  place  it  might  be  found.  Circum- 
stances led  her  to  the  South,  and  it  was  with  a  light  and 
bounding  spirit  that  she  first  trod  upon  the  Italian 
ground.  She  descended  the  Southern  Alps,  and  trav- 
ersed the  Milanese,  by  Brescia,  Vicenza,  Verona, 
Padua,  and  at  last  arrived  at  the  famous  city,  Venice  ! 

But  it  will  be  better  to  tell  the  lady's  story,  as  nearly 
as  may  be,  in  her  own  words.  Although  many  years 
have  passed  since  last  she  looked  at  a  Venetian  sky,  and 
although  time  may  have  written  some  marks  upon  a 
forehead  which  once  was  as  fair  as  marble,  yet  the 
brightness  of  her  eye  and  the  powers  of  her  memory 
still  remain  unimpaired ;  and  her  narrative  derives  no 
little  interest  from  the  grace  which  has  survived  the 
common  and  more  perishable  beauties  of  youth.  And 
indeed  there  is  a  matronly  as  well  as  a  maiden  beauty, 
equally  delightful,  though  in  a  different  fashion.  If 
the  reader  can  admit  a  distinction  between  two  words 
usually  confounded,  I  would  say  that  the  one  is  a  charm 
and  the  other  a  spell ;  the  one  attracts,  while  the  other 
commands  our  worship.  But  he  should  see  the  lady  of 
whom  I  speak.  '  He  should  have  the  soft  and  distinct 
tones  in  which  she  recounts  her  little  story.  He  should 
see  *  her  white  hand  wave  up  and  down  as  she  tells  of 
light  boats  *  dancing '  on  the  blue  waves  of  the  Adriatic, 
and  hear  her  voice  droop  into  sad  solemnity,  while  she 
describes  the  hush  of  the  watery  streets,  and  the  even- 


*  She  died  very  lately  (since  the  above  was  written)  at  an 
advanced  age. 


A   DAY    IN    VENICE,  129 

ing  chant  of  the  monks  and  sisters,  sailing  under  her 
balcony.  He  should  —  but,  as  he  cannot  by  any  possi- 
bility do  all  this,  I  will  try  to  recollect  her  words.  It  is 
thus  (or  nearly  thus)  that  I  have  heard  her  speak  :  — 

'  Towards  the  afternoon  of  a  bright  day,  we  left 
Padua,  "  leai'ned  Padua,"  and  embarked  on  the  Brenta 
for  Venice.  The  sun  was  riding  towards  the  west, 
but  he  had  not  yet  reached  the  point  where  he  illumin- 
ates the  sky  like  an  Iris ;  he  had  not  begun  "  to  die  like 
the  dolphin,"  but  blazed  out  clear  and  glorious,  and 
threw  his  dazzling  lights  on  the  vineyards  and  orange- 
groves  and  palladian  structures  which  crown  the  banks 
of  the  Brenta.  Time  passed,  as  we  glided  on,  and  on, 
—  meeting  first  a  carriage  boat,  then  a  gondola,  — 
by  fields  and  villas,  by  orange  and  laurel  trees, — and 
at  last  found  ourselves  on  the  open  waters,  sailing  direct 
for  St.  Mark's.  The  evening  was  now  coming  on,  and 
it  was  not  until  we  had  approached  somewhat  near  the 
city,  that  we  saw,  enveloped  in  a  haze,  and  like  a 
mirage  of  the  desert,  the  towers  and  turrets,  the  domes, 
churches  and  palaces  of  the  queenly  Venice.  She  rose 
before  us  more  like  a  Moorish  enchantment,  than  a  real 
positive  Christian  city.  I  thought  first  of  the  Fata 
Morgana,  and  believed  I  beheld  an  illusion ;  and  then 
of  Gulnare's  city  of  the  sea ;  and  half  expected  to 
meet,  amongst  pillars  of  green  and  gold,  and  fretwork 
of  ciystal,  the  fantastical  shapes  of  the  ocean. 

'  Well,  we  arrived  at  the  outskirts  of  Venice;  gliding 
up  the  road  which  was  marked  out  by  stakes,  while,  at 
every  stroke  of  the  oar,  the  city  seemed  to  swell,  and 
come   forth  and  stand  more  palpably  before  us.     To 

VOL.  I.  9 


130  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

me,  it  looked  like  one  huge  palace,  with  ranges  and 
avenues  of  buildings  belonging  to  it,  all  cramped  and 
crowded  together  upon  a  rock.  Independently  of  this, 
there  is  something  exceedingly  imposing  (as  I  found 
afterwards)  in  the  aspect  of  several  parts  of  this  famous 
city.  Its  strange  and  mingled  architecture,  which  is 
neither  Arabian  nor  Greek,  nor  Gothic ;  the  aspect  and 
manners  of  its  people,  so  diflerent  from  the  chattering 
and  noise  that  we  had  left  at  Paris  ;  its  black  gondolas 
and  silent  canals,  whose  sides  are  walled  by  palaces, 
fit  for  the  habitation  of  kings,  but  half  deserted,  fill  one 
with  solemn  and  even  melancholy  thoughts.  We  feel 
oppressed,  as  we  are  oppressed  by  the  power  of  antiquity, 
or  misfortune,  and  worship  these  apparitions  of  vanished 
glory  the  more  entirely,  because  they  are  neither  exist- 
ing nor  substantial. 

'  As  we  cajne  to  the  first  houses,  (but  before  we  enter- 
ed into  the  deep  shadow  which  they  cast  across  the 
water,)  we  looked  once  more  upon  the  mountains  of 
Friuli,  and  saw  them  lifting  up  their  huge  shoulders 
against  the  crimson  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Another 
dash  of  the  oar,  and  we  were  in  —  Venice  ! 

'  The  first  few  days  showed  us  nothing  remarkable, 

for  Mr. fell  suddenly  ill,  owing  to  travelling  under 

a  hot  sun,  and  I  was  too  anxious  to  perform  the  duties 
of  a  nurse  towards  my  husband,  to  waste  a  thought 
upon  the  wonders  around  us.  Time  and  abstinence, 
however,  soon  quelled  the  fever  which  had  kept  my 
patient  at  home,  and  we  then  prepared  to  go  through 
the  weary  duties  of  the  traveller,  and  to  inspect  every- 
thing that  strangers  usually  see.  In  the  mean  time,  a 
great  change  had  taken  place  in  the  ducal  city.     The 


A   DAY    IN    VENICE.  131 

transition  was  like  that  from  night  to  morning.  We 
came  into  a  place  where  silence  and  melancholy 
brooded,  and  we  awoke  in  a  world  of  rejoicing  and 
song.     It  was  the  Carnival ! 

'  I  do  not  mean  to  fatigue  you  with  a  regular  detail  of 
the  ceremonies,  which  were  observed  when  the  Doge 
of  Venice  used  to  celebrate  his  marriage  with  the 
Ocean.  You  may  read  of  these  in  books  of  travels, 
told  in  a  manner  that  I  cannot  aspire  to  rival.  I  must 
be  content  with  speaking  of  the  general  effect,  as  it 
related  to  myself. 

*  I  remember  waking  early  in  the  morning,  and  from 
my  window,  which  looked  over  the  Adriatic  sea,  I  saw 
the  sun  struggling  onwards  in  a  sea  of  vapor.  His 
track  appeared  nearly  in  the  point  of  Trieste.  The 
"waters  of  the  gulf  lay  silent,  stretching  away  south 
and  north,  a  melancholy  plain  without  life  or  motion. 
I  began  to  augur  ill  of  the  Venetian  festival,  but  I  was 
agreeably  disappointed.  For  in  about  an  hour  the  god 
of  day  threw  off  his  cloudy  bondage,  and  looked  out 
tipon  us  like,  what  he  really  is  in  southern  climates, 
the  living  wonder  and  paragon  of  the  heavens.  The 
■wind  began  to  stir  and  freshen,  and  the  waves  curled 
and  broke  along  the  shore.  The  distant  mountains, 
which  had  before  looked  cold  and  mournful,  awoke  to 
a  new  life,  and  put  on  their  richest  colors.  The  peo- 
ple opened  their  windows,  there  was  a  hum  of  voices 
and  laughing,  and  the  splashing  of  water  in  the  canals 
below.  One  after  one,  the  little  boats  and  gondolas 
shot  out  from  creeks  and  corners,  and  shook  their  tiny 
streamers  to  the  breeze ;  men  and  women,  in  new  gay 
dresses,  were  seen  ;  rowers  and  gondolieri,  and  holi- 


132  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

day-making  girls  from  the  neighboring  continent,  while 
the  servants  seemed  to  go  about  blithely  on  their 
morning  errands.  It  was  clear  that  the  day  would  be 
in  our  favor,  and  accordingly  we  prepared  to  do  it 
honor,  by  displaying  before  the  curious  Venetian  ladies 
some  of  the  elegances  of  our  English  apparel.  We 
had  ordered  a  gondola  to  be  ready  early,  and  after  we 
had  taken  our  coffee,  we  descended  to  where  it  lay 
waiting  our  arrival. 

'The  time  ajjpointed  for  the  procession  not  having 
arrived,  we  bade  the  gondolieri  row  us  through  some  of 
the  different  streets  of  the  city,  to  witness  the  prepara- 
tions that  were  making  in  all  quarters  from  the  Doge 
to  the  beggar.  The  English  traveller  who  has  not 
visited  this  corner  of  Italy,  cannot  have  any  idea  of 
the  delight  of  gliding  along  from  street  to  street,  by 
churches  and  palaces  and  marble  houses,  without  an 
effort  of  his  own.  It  is  more  like  the  motion  which 
we  enjoy  (or  seem  to  enjoy)  in  a  dream  than  anything 
else.  I  lay  on  the  soft  cushions  of  the  gondola,  and 
from  underneath  the  pleasant  shadow  which  the  cur- 
tains made,  I  looked  up  at  the  architectural  splendors ; 
at  windows  filled  with  eastern-looking  women,  some 
gazing  on  the  boats  below,  some  glancing  at  the  sky, 
(to  see  if  the  day  were  likely  to  be  overcast,)  some 
arranging  their  hair,  and  others  listening  to  the  cava- 
liers who  hung  over  them,  telling  tales  probably  as 
sweet  and  as  welcome  as  those  which  were  listened  to 
in  former  days,  in  the  romantic  gardens  of  Boccaccio. 

'After  some  time  spent  in  this  manner,  we  arrived 
near  the  quay  of  Saint  Mark's,  and  found  that  the 
procession  had  commenced.     The  Doge,  and  senators 


A   DAY   IN   VENICE.  133 

and  people  of  rank,  were  already  in  the  vessel  appro- 
priated for  their  reception  Thousands  of  persons 
were  on  the  water,  thousands  on  the  quays  and  steps, 
at  the  corners  of  streets,  and  in  the  windows^  Every 
spot  of  ground  was  alive  with  human  creatures  when 
the  signal  was  given,  and  then  —  but  we  must  borrow 
the  pen  of  a  friend  to  help  us  here  — 

"  And  then 
Flamed  forth  the  Bucentaur,  whose  amorous  sails 
Kissed  the  low  whispering  winds,  which  made  reply 
Softer  than  echo,  whilst  the  vessel  rode 
Triumphant  past  the  watery  palaces ; 
Proud  of  its  ducal  load  it  swam,  and  shook 
Its  streamers,  flaunting,  whilst  crowds  of  Venetians 
Swarmed  in  the  az^iire  air,  and  ladies  bright 
Showered  their  rare  glances  which  outflashed  the  sun  ; 
And  music,  like  a  fountain  of  sweet  sound, 
Rose  up  and  fell,  and  when  it  died  there  came 
A  noise  of  footsteps  near,  or  dashing  waves, 
Or  voices  which  the  time  made  musical. 
The  Prince  of  Venice  now  went  forth  to  wed 
The  Ocean,  —  a  rich  bride,  whose  dowry  filled 
His  insular  kingdom  and  made  proud  his  name  j 
And  in  his  train  went  thousands,  following  fast 
In  floating  shells,  galleys  and  gondolas. 
While  the  fair  Ocean  her  voluptuous  breast 
Laid  bare  in  transport,  and  in  waves  all  warm 
Received  her  tribute,  that  fast-fettering  ring 
Which  bound  her  bride  of  Venice  !  " 

*To  my  thinking,  notwithstanding  my  friend's  verses, 
the  marriage  of  the  Doge  was  but  a  foolish  ceremony. 
It  had  not  the  common  solemnity  of  a  conjuror's  spell. 
But  the  world  of  bright  eyes  and  happy  faces,  the 
cheerful    jubilee,   the   snatches  and   echoes   of  song 


134  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

which  floated  about  and  haunted  us  on  every  side, 
were  delightful.  I  was  glad  to  return  from  the  gorge- 
ous Bucentaur  and  the  grave  looking  senators,  who 
soon  returned  from  their  watery  wedding,  to  the 
dance,  the  musicians,  and  masquers  of  the  carnival. 
There  was  Pulcinello  in  all  his  glory,  mimics,  trage- 
dians, venders  of  all  fruits  and  luxuries,  idlere,  and 
visitors  from  every  nation.  There  was  the  Frenchman 
in  his  formal  silken  dress,  the  Armenian  in  his  flowing 
robes,  the  Spaniard  in  his  cloak  of  gravity,  the  Jew, 
the  Turk,  the  German,  the  Englishman,  and  samples 
from  every  province  and  state  of  Italy.  In  truth, 
there  was  a  good  deal  that  was  spirit-stirring  and 
delightful,  but,  unluckily,  there  was  nothing  to  recount. 
Our  only  adventure  —  if  adventure  it  may  be  called  — 
took  place  at  night,  and  to  that  I  will  now  hasten.  I 
may  state,  that  after  several  hours  of  amusement  and 
fatigue,  we  quitted  for  a  time  the  out-of-door  gaiety  of 
the  city,  and  took  refuge  in  our  apartments.  There 
we  dined,  as  people  who  frequent  carnivals  should 
dine,  took  our  coffee,  and  spent  the  early  part  of  the 
evening  quietly. 

'  We  had  been  told,  however,  that  the  festivities  of 
the  time,  which  declined  with  the  day,  were  resumed 
with  treble  vigor  at  night.  In  consequence  of  this 
intimation,  we  emerged  once  more  from  our  habitation 
(it  was  now  late  in  the  evening)  and  went,  accom- 
panied by  an  Italian  gentleman  with  whom  my  hus- 
band was  acquainted,  to  a  casino  near  Saint  Mark's. 
We  found  the  company  about  to  retire,  and,  in  fact, 
they  soon  after  disappeared,  one  after  another,  until 
we  alone  were  left  there.     This  was  a  disappointment 


A   DAY    IN    VENICE.  135 

to  US,  who  had  come  so  far  to  see  the  humors  of 
Venice;  but  we  were  speedily  compensated  by  the 
arrival  of  some  itinerant  musicians  who  stopped  before 
the  door  of  the  place,  and  began  an  air,  in  which  a 
female  voice  of  rare  quality  and  compass,  and  a  mas- 
terly hand  on  the  violin,  were  conspicuous.  The  voice 
was  the  richest  I  had  ever  heard,  although  I  was  accus- 
tomed to  Italian  singing,  and  we  all  (even  our  Italian 
friend)  listened  with  breathless  pleasure,  while  the 
unseen  musician  warbled  out  one  or  two  Venetian 
ballads,  and  an  air  of,  I  think,  Marcello. 

'Some  words,  that  dropped  from  our  friends,  induced 
us  to  think  that  the  singers  might  be  amateurs,  who  had 
come  out  to  do  honor  to  the  Carnival.  But  on  going  to 
the  door,  a  single  glance  convinced  us  of  the  unfeigned 
poverty  of  the  party.  They  accepted,  moreover,  a  few 
small  pieces  of  coin  with  great  readiness,  and  thanked 
us  in  the  name  of  the  Signer  Pazzi,  the  master  and 
violinist  of  the  company.  This  man  had  the  marks  of 
having  had  a  fine  person  formerly,  but  he  was  now 
squalid  in  his  appearance,  and  his  look  was  dissipated 
and  ferocious.  The  other  men  were  wrapped  in  coarse, 
ragged  cloaks,  and  the  women  in  wretched  clothes,  with 
the  exception  only  of  the  young  musician  whom  we  had 
heard,  (the  "prima  donna"  of  this  forlorn  band,)  who 
wore  some  faded  finery  about  her,  and  looked  like  a 
strolling  play-girl.  To  do  her  justice,  she  had  a  pic- 
turesque air,  and,  I  must  confess,  the  very  handsomest 
face  I  ever  saw.  It  was  somewhat  of  the  gipsy  cast, 
but  less  dark,  and  without  the  expression  of  fierceness 
which  belongs  to  that  wandering  tribe.  She  came  for» 
ward  with  a  bewitching  smile,  and  a  courtesy  that  was 


136  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

not  inelegant,  to  petition  for  reward,  when  I  had  an 
opportunity  of  observing  her.  And  certainly  she  was  a 
most  attractive  person,  so  rich  in  color,  (like  one  of 
Titian's  pictures,)  so  full  and  flowing  in  shape,  her  dress 
so  simple,  her  manners  —  what  is  the  word  ?  —  alluring. 
Yet  she  was  evidently  a  woman  of  inferior  education, 
and  when  upon  my  husband  paying  her  some  compli- 
ments, which  she  returned  with  a  profusion  of  smiles  and 
thanks,  the  Signor  Pazzi  called  her  back  in  a  rough, 
sullen  voice,  she  ran  to  him,  laughing  and  chattering, 
with  an  air  that  betrayed  the  peasant. 

*  The  musicians  now  left  us,  and  we  prepared  to  return 
homewards.  In  our  way  thither,  we  had  to  cross  an 
angle  of  the  square  of  Saint  Mark's,  and  we  there  over- 
took our  singers.  They  had  made  a  halt,  probably  to 
divide  the  amount  of  the  day's  earnings,  and  were  all 
huddled  together ;  the  singing  girl  hanging  upon  the 
arm  of  the  violin  player.  As  we  approached,  the  party 
separated,  the  two  I  have  mentioned  going  one  way 
and  the  remainder  of  the  band  in  an  opposite  direction. 
They  seemed  to  part  with  great  glee,  reminding  each 
other  of  the  to-morrow ;  and  wishing  their  "  good-nights  " 
very  clamorously.  When  they  were  about  fifty  yards 
distant,  one  of  the  larger  group  called  out  once  more, 
"  Buona  notte,"  upon  which  the  girl  sang  out  in  return  — 

"  Buona  notte,  Idolo  mio  ! 
Buona  notte,  va  a  dormir." 

in  a  voice  of  such  superlative  richness  and  sweetness, 
that  the  very  air  seemed  thrilled  with  her  notes,  and 
rang  like  a  piece  of  silver. 

'  It  so  happened  that  our  course  lay  in  the  same  line 


A    DAY    IN    VENICE.  137 

as  that  of  the  itinerant  pair,  and  we  followed  them 
accordingly  towards  the  spot  where  our  gondola  was 
waiting.  Silence  and  tranquillity  were  now  resuming 
their  rule.  The  windows  and  jalousies  were  heard  to 
shut  one  after  another ;  a  distant  noise,  or  the  voice  of 
a  single  gondolier,  was  only  (and  those  rarely)  heard, 
till  at  last  nothing  was  audible  but  our  own  footsteps  on 
the  marble  ground.  We  had  by  this  time  arrived  very 
near  to  our  boat,  and  were  thinking  of  the  merriment 
that  we  had  witnessed,  when  we  heard  a  low,  sad 
sound  coming  up  out  of  the  canals  ;  and  a  boat  convey- 
ing a  light  at  its  head,  was  seen  approaching  the  place 
of  our  destination.  "  It  is  a  funeral,"  said  our  Italian 
friend  ;    and  we  stopped  accordingly,  nearly  opposite 

the  G i  Palace,  where  the  coming  sounds  or  the  light 

seemed  to  have  attracted  attention.  In  a  few  minutes, 
the  voices  were  heard  distinctly,  singing  some  dirge 
or  melancholy  song.  We  were  observing  upon  its 
beauty,  when  on  a  sudden,  a  great  number  of  lights 

appeared  in  and  about  the  G i  Palace,  which  before 

had  been  wrapped  in  silence,  and,  amidst  all  the  mad- 
ness of  the  day  of  jubilee,  had  alone  looked  dark  and 
unrejoicing. 

'  "  Good  God,"  exclaimed  our  friend  aloud.     "It  is 

the  funeral  of  Olympia  G i  !  "     The  musician  who 

stood  near  us  seemed  to  start  at  this  intelligence,  and 
uttered  a  strange  cry.  We  could  only,  however,  hear 
the  word  "  dead ! "  although  he  uttered  something 
more. 

' "  Holy  mother,"  said  the  girl, "  is  she  dead  indeed  ? " 

'  "  Peace,"  returned  the  fellow  in  a  rough  tone  ;  and 

the  girl  was  instantly  silent.     The  funeral  procession 


1,S8  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

was  now  close  to  us,  and  every  word  of  the  chant 
was  audible. 

'  How  divine  is  such  sweet,  sad  music,  heard  at  night ! 
The  day  is  fit  only  for  bustling  noises,  for  war  and 
traffic  and  action ;  for  quarrels  and  loud  complaints ; 
all  these  should  be  finished  with  the  day.  But  at  night, 
let  us  look  at  the  sailing  moon,  or  stand  by  the  hushing 
water  ;  let  us  hear  words  of  love,  or  melancholy  songs; 
let  us  dream  of  pleasures  that  we  have  lost,  or  of 
friends  that  have  gone  far  away,  for  ever ! 

'  I  cannot  repeat  the  very  words  of  the  dirge,  which 
was  sung  on  that  Carnival  evening,  but  it  was  some- 
thing very  like  what  I  am  about  to  repeat :  at  all  events 
its  purport  was  the  same.  You  must  imagine,  how- 
ever, the  place,  the  time,  the  stillness,  the  solitude, 
and  the  solemn  feelings  that  had  crept  over  our  hearts, 
in  order  to  understand  the  effect  which  the  music  pro- 
duced upon  us ;  and  you  must  make  some  allowance 
for  my  translation,  also,  which  is  almost  an  extempore 
matter :  — 

"  We  bear  her  home  ;  we  bear  her  home  ! 
Over  the  murmuring  salt  sea  foam  ; 
One  who  has  fled  from  the  war  of  life, 
From  sorrow,  pains,  and  the  fever  strife. 

"Noble,  and  young,  and  fair  was  she, 
Who  saileth  with  us  on  the  moonlight  sea ; 
How  gentle  she  looked,  how  softly  spoke  ! 
And  loved  so  well,  but  her  heart  was  broke  ! 

"  So,  we  bear  her  along  to  her  marble  halls, 
Where  now  no  delicate  footstep  falls  ; 
To  the  bier  where  a  thousand  torches  shine, — 
The  last  of  a  proud  and  ducal  line ! 


A   DAY   IN   VENICE.  139 

"  The  city  is  gay,  and  the  laugh  is  loud ; 
But  the  moon,  she  mourns  in  her  silver  shroud  ! 
And  the  revel  is  mad,  —  but  we,  —  but  we 
Are  alone  with  the  dead  on  the  lonely  sea  !  " 

•The  concluding  verse,  however,  although  it  might 
have  been  originally  true,  was  by  this  time  contra- 
dicted by  the  silence  around  ;  notwithstanding  that  in 
some  houses  the  gaiety  of  the  revel  still  went  on. 
As  the  procession  stopped  at  the  palace,  in  order  that 
the  boat  should  unload  its  freight,  the  Signer  Pazzi, 
seemed  once  more  much  disturbed  ;  and  after  one  or 
two  attempts  to  stand  his  ground,  finally  retreated  in 
disorder,  with  his  pretty  companion. 

'  "  I  think  I  recollect  our  violinist  and  his  friend,"  said 
our  Italian  associate,  as  we  rowed  along ;  "  and  the 
poor  lady  who  is  dead  I  knew  intimately.  There  is  a 
little,  not  much  to  be  sure,  of  a  story  respecting  her," — 
he  hesitated. 

'  "  Pray  let  us  hear  it,"  said  I. 

'  "  I  will  endeavor  to  tell  it  you  to-morrow,"  replied  he, 
"  and  I  will  call  on  you  about  noon.  In  the  mean  time 
I  may  glean  some  more  particulars  about  her ;  "  and 
with  these  words  we  parted  for  the  night. 

'  The  next  day  our  friend  was  punctual  to  the  his  ap- 
pointment and  gave  us  the  following  account  of  the 
deceased  lady :  — 

'  "  You  have  heard  of  course  of  the  G i  family," 

he  began.  "  It  has  reckoned,  amongst  its  members, 
doges,  illustrious  warriors,  senators  without  number, 
besides  many  artists  and  learned  men.     The  first  who 

made  the  name  famous,  was  Jacomo  G i  who  sank 

the  fleet  of  the  Ottomans  —  in  —  I  forgot  the  year— 


140  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

but  centuries   ago:    the   last   was  Olympia   G i, 

whom  you  saw  taken  to  her  grave  last  night.  She 
was  the  sole  descendant  of  her  house.  One  after 
another,  her  family  and  relations  had  all  disappeared. 
They  left  her  the  survivor  of  them  all ;  and  now  —  not 
one  remains  ! 

*  "  She  was  very  beautiful  —  this  poor  Olympia  G i. 

She  possessed  great  dignity,  much  grace,  and  a  serious 
sweetness  that  1  have  never  seen  equalled  in  any  face. 
With  enough  of  pride,  (as  much  as  her  rank  and 
talent  seemed  to  justify,)  she  possessed  something  which 
might  be  called  genius.  It  was  more  than  the  ability 
that  results  from  industry ;  and  would,  if  it  had  been 
called  into  action,  have  made  her  undoubtedly  cele- 
brated as  a  poetess  or  painter.  But  unfortunately,  she 
had  enormous  riches;  and  so  she  remained  simply  a 
Venetian  lady.  When  she  was  a  child  her  father  and 
mother  died,  and  left  her  to  the  care  of  a  maternal  rela- 
tion, one  of  the  Mancini  family.  He  was  an  honorable, 
but  a  very  poor  man,  and  the  allowance  for  life  which 
the  Avill  of  Olympia's  father  gave  him,  in  requital  for 
the  guardianship  of  his  child,  formed  almost  his  only 
support. 

'  "  You  may  imagine  that  the  rank  and  wealth  and 
beauty  of  Olympia  were  not  long  without  worshippers. 
Her  hand  was  in  fact  sought  by  many  ;  by  nobles  and 
even  by  princes.  But  early  in  life,  before  she  well 
knew  what  love  was,  she  had  given  away  her  heart  to 
the  son  of  her  guardian,  a  young  man  with  whom  she 
had  been  brought  up  and  who  professed  to  return  it  with 
his  own.  Camillo  Mancini,  however,  was  not  a  person 
to  be  entrusted  with  hearts.     He  would  have  broken 


A    DAY    IN    VENICE.  141 

a  hundred.  He  was  a  youth  of  some  promise  origi- 
nally, but  with  strong  passions  and  a  wilful  temper;  and 
he  was  utterly  destitute  of  both  principle  and  prudence. 
Being  caught  by  the  glitter  of  arms,  he  suddenly  re- 
solved to  become  a  soldier,  and  entered  the  Austrian 
or  some  foreign  service  ;  and  there,  amidst  the  bustle 
and  license  of  a  military  life,  very  speedily  forgot 
Olympia  and  his  love  engagements.  She,  however, 
with  the  fine  fidelity  of  a  woman,  never  wavered.  She 
received  accounts  of  his  ill  conduct,  (for  he  himself  soon 
gave  over  writing,)  she  grieved  for  his  excesses :  re- 
lieved him  more  than  once  from  poverty  and  ruin ;  went 
to  him  when  he  was  sick  or  wounded  ;  tried  unwear- 
iedly  to  restore  him  to  respectability  and  comfort,  and 
was,  in  all  respects,  his  better  angel.  She  got  tired, 
indeed,  at  last,  of  striving  in  vain  to  serve  a  thankless 
vagabond,  and,  ceasing  her  efforts,  she  immediately 
acquired  —  a  foe. 

'  "  Camillo  Mancini  was  one  of  those  careless  spend- 
thrifts of  reputation,  upon  whom  it  is  idle  to  waste  a  par- 
ticle of  charity.  He  lived  solely  for  his  own  pleasure  ; 
but  it  was  the  pleasure  always  of  to-day.  No  admoni- 
tion of  prudence,  no  prospect  of  advantage,  could  wean 
him  from  present  enjoyment.  He  wished ;  and  if  the 
wish  was  within  the  scope  of  possibility,  he  gratified  it  at 
every  risk.  In  a  mad  moment,  and  to  please  the  whim 
of  the  instant,  he  at  length  actually  married  a  young 
adventuress  who  had  previously  declined  his  offer  of  a 
*  philosophical  intimacy.'  She  had,  as  was  supposed, 
led  a  free  life  enough  before  ;  but  a  fit  of  prudence, 
as  sudden  as  that  of  her  lover's  folly,  possessed  her 
then;  and  the  consequence  was  that  she  became  the 


142  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

wife  of  Camillo.  This  news  travelled  speedily  to 
Venice.  It  was  whispered  about,  and  justified  by  false- 
hoods, which  went  so  far  as  to  defame  the  reputation 
Olympia ;  and  these  falsehoods  were  traced  with- 
out much  difficulty  to  Camillo  himself.  Olympia 
heard  all  that  was  said.  But  she  suffered  calmly  and 
silently ;  until  the  slander,  together  with  the  benefits 
which  she  had  conferred,  became  the  laugh  of  the  day, 
partly  by  the  treachery  of  an  agent  and  partly  by 
Camillo's  drunken  boasting,  and  then  the  pity  of  her 
enemies  and  the  'advice'  of  her  friends,  roused  her 
from  her  apparent  apathy  to  a  state  of  perilous  excite- 
ment. It  was  this  struggle  in  her  mind  that  tended  to 
destroy  her. 

'  "  You  must  not  suppose,  however,  that  our  young 
Venetian  was  a  pining,  sickly  girl,  who  sank  into  the 
grave  without  an  effort.  On  the  contrary,  she  stood 
up  bravely  against  disappointment,  and  looked  proudly 
on  the  extinction  of  her  brightest  hopes.  There  is  no 
knowing  but  that  she  might  at  last  have  conquered, 
(for  she  had  good  sense  as  well  as  pride,)  had  not 
sickness  come  in  to  the  aid  of  sorrow,  and  completed 
the  ruin  which  the  other  had  but  began.  The  miasma 
—  the  maV  aria  —  whatever  is  its  name,  is  a  fatal 
complaint  when  it  attacks  those  who  are  already  weak ; 
and  Olympia,  when  it  attacked  her,  was  as  feverish 
and  weak  as  her  worst  foe  could  desire.  The  conse- 
quence was  —  of  what  use  is  it  protracting  the  story  or 
going  into  minute  details  —  the  consequence  was,  that 
the  malady  was  victorious ;  and  Death,  to  the  long  list 
of  his  illustrious  and  lovely  victims,  has  now  added 


A    DAT    IN    VENICE.  143 

the  heiress  and  last  descendant  of  the  once  famous 
house  of  G i ! 

'  "I  could  tell  you  how  she  faded,  and  faded  away; 
how  first  she  lost  her  strength,  and  then  her  beauty; 
how  she  travelled  from  place  to  place  ;  how  she  con- 
sulted infallible  physicians,  and  tried  one  after  the 
other,  '  amusement,'  '  occupation,'  '  change,'  and 
the  fifty  things  which  are  recommended  in  hopeless 
cases ;  and  how  at  last  she  retired  to  the  house  of  a 
friend  near  Verona,  and  there  died  uncomplaining. 
But  I  do  not  desire  to  make  my  story  more  pathetic 
than  it  is.  I  state  little  more  than  what  the  kind- 
hearted  monk,  who  attended  her  in  her  last  moments, 
detailed  to  me  this  morning.  Poor  old  fellow  !  he 
wiped  his  eyes  so  often  with  the  sleeve  of  his  rough 
dress,  that  I  was  enticed  into  bearing  him  company, 
and  cried  also." 

'  Was  he  that  solemn  voice,'  inquired  I,  '  which 
rose  above  the  rest  in  the  requiem  ? ' 

*  Yes,  truly,'  replied  our  friend  ;  '  that  was  he.  He 
sang,  if  you  remember,  those  deep  tones  which  thrilled 
you,  you  said,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  dirge  — 

'  But  we  —  but  wt 
Art  alone  with  the  dead  on  the  lonely  sea  '.  ' 

'  I  remember, '  said  I,  '  both  the  voice  and  the 
words.  They  were  both  well  entitled  to  make  an 
impression.  And  now,  Sir,'  added  I,  '  I  must  thank 
you  for  your  story,  although  you  have  forgotten  the 
two  persons  who  stood  beside  us  when  the  funeral 
procession  passed.  You  promised  to  give  some  ac- 
count of  them,  did  you  not  ?  ' 


144  A    DAY    IN    VENICE. 

*  True,'  answered  our  friend ;  '  I  had  forgotten. 
The  female  was  the  wife  of  the  musician,  her  com- 
panion ;  and  her  companion  was  —  Camillo  Rlaa- 
cini  ! ' 

Such  was  the  lady's  account  of  her  '  Day  in  Venice,' 
and  such  the  narrative  related  to  her. 

'  It  is  all  I  remember,'  said  she,  in  conclusion ;  '  not 
much  you  will  say,  yet  it  was  sufficient  to  interest  me 
at  the  time,  although  there  are  not  materials  enough  in 
it  to  constitute  a  story.' 

1828. 


THE  STAUNTONS. 


It  was  nearly  midnight  when  a  person,  whom,  for 
various  reasons,  we  choose  to  call  Sir  Everard  Staun- 
ton, descended  from  the  drawing-room  of  his  country 
mansion  to  his  library,  accompanied  by  a  young  man, 
who  was  his  relation.  Until  that  day,  Edward  Staun- 
ton (for  that  was  the  young  man's  name),  had  never 
seen  his  titled  cousin ;  and  he  now  came  down  to  '  the 
Priory '  by  virtue  of  a  pressing  invitation  from  its 
owner,  to  whom  he  had  applied  respecting  some  ar- 
rears of  an  annuity  or  legacy  that  had  been  payable 
to  his  father  out  of  the  family  estates,  and  which 
now.  in  truth,  constituted  nearly  the  whole  of  his  little 
fortune. 

They  took  their  way  down  the  broad  marble  stairs, 
and  along  carpeted  passages ;  their  footsteps  falling 
so  softly  as  scarcely  to  waken  an  echo.  Sir  Everard 
led  the  way,  and  the  young  man  followed,  but  neither 
uttered  a  word.  The  first  was  apparently  full  of 
serious  meditation,  while  the  latter  occupied  himself 
partly  with  speculating  on  the  strange  character  of  his 
great  cousin,  and  partly  with  listening  to  the  blustering 
of  a  wild,  hollow,  moaning  November  wind,  which 

VOL.  I.  10 


146  THE    STAUNTONS. 

was  straining  the  branches  of  some  old  pine-trees,  and 
driving  occasionally  a  few  heavy  drops  of  rain  against 
the  windows  of  the  house. 

It  was  a  situation,  not  for  fear,  but  for  that  vague 
sort  of  awe  which  comes  over  us  when  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  darkness  and  silence.  And,  indeed,  the 
character  of  Sir  Everard  Staunton  himself,  was  well 
calculated  to  deepen  such  an  impression.  He  was, 
or  was  reputed  to  be,  of  a  stern,  unsocial  habit ; 
mixing  little  with  the  business  which  the  country  gen- 
tlemen were  called  upon  to  perform  as  magistrates  or 
landlords  in  the  county,  and  never  joining  in  their 
amusements.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  became  the 
undisputed  master  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year. 
But  his  temperament  was  naturally  proud  and  moody  ; 
and  this,  which  solitude  increased,  was  at  least  greatly 
augmented  by  the  death  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  was 
contracted  in  marriage.  From  that  day,  Sir  Everard 
Staunton  became  an  altered  man. 

In  his  youth  (and  he  was  now  scarcely  more  than 
forty  years  of  age),  he  had  been  remarkable  for  per- 
sonal beauty.  There  were  individuals,  even  ladies,  to 
attest  this,  who  knew  him  before  jaundice  and  sleepless 
nights  had  tinged  his  face  with  an  unhealthy  color. 
Noio,  his  skin  was  sallow :  sickness  and  sorrow,  bile 
and  opium,  and  marasma,  seclusion,  and  the  sadness 
that  springs  from  many  lonely  years,  had  attenuated 
his  figure,  and  stolen  the  lustre  from  his  once  black 
and  searching  eyes.  Still,  however,  the  intellect 
stamped  upon  his  forehead,  which  rose  up,  broad  and 
upright,  from  his  brows,  and  was  lost  in  a  cloud  of 
raven  hair,  commanded  attention  ;  and  his  dark,  long, 


THE    STAUNTONS.  147 

and  finely-formed  features  —  even  the  smile  which 
sarcasm  brought  to  his  mouth  —  his  stern  look,  and  his 
haughty  bearing,  produced  alternately  admiration  and 
respect.  With  another  name,  one  might  have  caught 
oneself  now  and  then  detecting  among  his  features  the 
patrician  aspect  of  Surrey,  or  the  chivalrous  bearing 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney;  and  at  times,  even  a  more 
stirring  and  lofty  character,  such  as  might  have  be- 
longed to  a  descendant  of  the  houses  of  Plantaganet 
or  Tudor. 

But  we  have  no  space  to  waste  upon  mere  descrip- 
tion. The  reader  will,  therefore,  imagine  (while  we 
have  been  introducing  him  thus  personally,  as  it  were, 
to  Sir  Everard  Staunton),  that  both  he  and  his  young 
relative  had  taken  their  station  in  the  two  arm-chairs 
that  were  placed  by  the  library  fire.  The  room  was 
large  and  gloomy,  notwithstanding  the  bright  blaze 
which  issued  from  the  grate,  and  a  couple  of  large 
lamps,  which  diffused  a  mild  but  melancholy  light 
throughout  the  room.  The  wainscoat,  where  it  was 
visible,  appeared  to  be  of  black  oak,  deeply  carved ; 
although  nearly  the  whole  of  the  walls  were  covered 
with  books  of  all  sorts,  in  all  languages,  which  the 
taste  of  one  ancestor  and  the  pride  or  industry  of 
others  had  collected  during  a  long  succession  of 
Stauntons. 

Sir  Everard  put  his  hand  upon  the  bell-rope.  '  You 
may  go  to  bed,  Darford,'  said  he  to  his  servant,  who 
answered  his  summons.  '  Yet,  observe  !  I  have 
something  to  do  to-night,  a  matter  of  moment,  with 
which  this  gentleman,  Mr.  Edward  Staunton,  is  alto- 
gether unacquamted.     You  will  remember  this  ? ' 


148  THE    STAUNTONS. 

'  I  will,  Sir  Everard,'  replied  the  man ;  saying  which 
he  bowed  and  retired. 

During  this  brief  dialogue,  Edward  had  stood  up  to 
contemplate  a  portrait  that  was  suspended  over  the  fire- 
place. As  far  as  could  be  judged  by  that  light,  it 
represented  a  dark,  middle-aged  man,  with  a  very 
noble  and  expressive  countenance. 

'  It  is  Sir  Edward  Staunton,  my  father,'  replied  Sir 
Everard,  bringing  forward  one  of  the  lamps  in  order 
to  render  the  painting  more  distinct.  *  It  is  my  father. 
How  do  you  like  his  look  ?  He  was  an  excellent, 
learned,  noble-minded  man.' 

'  The  countenance  is  very  striking,'  replied  Edward ; 
'  but  it  wears  a  sad  expression,  to  my  thinking.  Was 
he  unhappy.  Sir  ? ' 

'  He  ought  not  to  have  been  so,'  answered  the  other, 
smiling  grimly  ;  '  so  at  least  the  world  would  tell  you  : 
for  he  had  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and 
both  his  heart  and  his  body  were  free  from  blemish.' 

*  And  yet  — '  Edward  was  proceeding,  when  tlie 
other  took  up  his  words. 

*  And  yet  ! '  echoed  he  ;  'he  was  not  a  jovial,  cham- 
pagne drinking  fellow.  He  scarcely  •'  enjoyed  "  himself, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  seldom  smiled,  and  was  never 
merry.  He  had  courage,  generosity,  intellect,  and 
fifty  other  qualities  which  might  be  mentioned,  were  it 
worth  while  to  enumerate  them ;  and  yet,  he  walked 
through  life  —  a  melancholy  man.  I  do  not  know 
how  it  is,'  continued  Sir  Everard,  with  compressed 
lips,  and  speaking  at  intervals,  '  but  we  Stauntons 
seem  to  have  foresworn  merriment,  even  before  we 
could  stammer  out  a  jest.     We  are  ourselves  —  a  jest. 


THE    STATTNTONS.  149 

Here  am  I  —  I,  scarcely  any  one  to  accuse,  nothing 
of  which  I  may  complain,  nothing  to  dread,  nothing  to 
wish  for.  And  yet,  I  have  seen  a  beggar  who  could 
laugh  more  heartily,  and  a  cripple  with  more  buoyancy 
in  his  gait.' 

'  You  should  have  some  pursuit,  Sir  Everard,'  ob- 
served his  companion,  '  some  — ' 

*  Cousin  ! '  interrupted  the  other,  almost  fiercely,  '  I 
have  tried  everything  !  Like  those  who  are  cursed 
with  sterility,  there  is  nothing  that  I  have  not  done  — 
no  path  that  I  have  not  traversed  —  no  aid  that  I  have 
not  sought  —  and  all  in  vain  !  My  way  of  life  is 
barren — barren  !  Is  it  not  strange,  is  it  nothard,  that 
we  all,  from  sire  to  son,  have  come  into  this  cold- 
hearted  world,  and  grown  upwards,  with  this  cloud 
upon  our  mind,  which  neither  travel,  nor  thought,  nor 
toil,  can  dissipate  ?  It  seems  as  though  that  terrible 
line  of  Dante,  which  was  graven  over  Hell-gate  — 

"  All  Hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here  !  " 

hung  for  ever  over  us ;  following  us  from  age  to  age, 
and  from  land  to  land.  It  has  spread  its  influence  over 
the  proudest  of  our  name.  We  are  a  care-worn, 
hopeless,  melancholy  race,  filled  with  dark  doubts, 
and  oppressed  by  strange  imaginations.  So  it  has  been 
with  my  fathers,  and  so  it  must  be  with  me,  until  I 
tak$  my  turn  to  go  past  the  beech-wood,  which  you 
saw  this  morning,  to  rest  in  our  small  mansion  beyond 
—  the  mausoleum  of  all  the  Stauntons ! ' 

'This  is  wild;  'tis  — '  Edward  hesitated. 

'  Out  with  the  word,  cousin,'  said  Sir  Everard  — 
*  madness  !     That  is  what  you  would  say.     But  you 


150  THE    STAUNTONS. 

are  mistaken.  We  are  free  from  tliat  unhappy  taint. 
We  are  of  a  gloomy  temperament  only,  and  —  we 
cannot  help  it.' 

'  Man  may  control  his  blood,  Sir  Everard,'  said  his 
young  companion,  '  and  may  do  with  himself  almost 
whatever  he  desires.' 

'  "Man,"  cousin  ! '  responded  Sir  Everard.  '  Tush? 
tush !  when  you  have  toiled  through  three-and-forty 
years,  you  will  find  that  man  is  no  better  than  a  weed. 
Half,  at  least,  of  what  he  shows  depends  upon  the  soil 
he  grows  in.  This  cloudy  country,  now,  does  not 
agree  with  my  temperament ;  and  hence  I  always 
droop.  '  Nevertheless,'  added  he  somewhat  sadly, 
*  one  loves  one's  native  land  with  a  sort  of  natural 
superstitition,  which  it  is  not  easy  to  get  rid  of.  So,  I 
shall  take  my  chance  even  where  I  am.  I  shall  live  as 
long  as  —  is  convenient ;  and  then  I  shall  set  off  for  the 
Moon.' 

*  I  hope  you  will  live  long,  my  dear  Sir  Everard,  — 
long  and  happily,'  said  Edward  Staunton,  with  a  sin- 
cere emphasis,  —  *  with  silver  haii's  upon  your  head, 
and  children  flourishing  about  you.' 

The  kindness  which  Sir  Everard  had  shown  him 
during  the  day,  and  his  unexpected  generosity  touching 
some  pecuniary  question,  had  had  its  effect  on  the  young 
man.  He  spoke  from  his  heart,  and,  as  is  then  always 
the  case,  produced  a  sudden  and  evident  effect  upon 
his  proud  relative.  Yet  Sir  Everard  had  been  duped 
repeatedly  in  his  time,  had  found  relatives  who  were 
not  friends,  and  seen  friend  after  friend  fail  him  ;  and 
he  therefore  scanned  with  a  jealous  eye,  the  open, 
ingenuous  countenance  before  him.  There  was  nothing 


THE    STAUNTONS.  151 

concealed  in  it :  all  was  fair,  open,  blushing  and  burn- 
ing with  the  strong  feeling  which  his  cousin's  depend- 
ency had  excited.  Sir  Everard  saw  this,  and  spoke  at 
last  with  a  gloomy  but  friendly  smile,  — 

'  You  almost  deserve  that  I  should  take  you  at  your 
word,  my  foolish  cousin.  Do  you  know,  that  by  the 
will  of  that  same  Sir  Edward,  who  looks  upon  you 
from  the  panel  there,  you  are  entitled  to  large  estates, 
in  case  I  die  childless  or  without  a  will  ? ' 

*  I  have  heard  something  of  this.  Sir,  yet  imper- 
fectly,' replied  Edward ;  *  it  never,  however,  dwelt 
for  an  instant  on  my  memory.  Besides,  Sir  Everard 
Staunton  will  not  do  such  an  act  of  injustice,  as  to 
disinherit  both  his  sister  and  his  sister's  son.' 

*  What  1 '  —  said  Sir  Everard,  — '  do  you  mean  Julia 
Fortescue  ?  and  Julia's  child  ?  Sir,  added  he  sternly, 
*  she  deceived  her  father  first,  and  then  she  betrayed 
me.  And  her  son  —  oh !  he  inherits  his  mother's 
nature ;  save  that  to  the  cunning  of  the  fox,  he  has 
added  the  viper's  venom.  No  more  of  them.  By  my 
father's  soul,  I  swear  to  you,  I  will  rather  endow  a 
hospital,  or  scatter  my  possessions  to  the  winds,  than 
waste  them  on  those  who  are  base  and  ungrateful. 
But  —  once  more,' added  he,  resuming  his  quiet  man- 
ner, '  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this.  Tell  me  rather  of 
yourself.  What  are  you  doing,  my  young  cousin  ?  and 
what  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  ' 

'I  —  I  scarcely  know,'  replied  Edward  ;  *  the  death 
of  my  father  has  thrown  me  suddenly  on  my  own  re- 
sources.    Yet,  I  think  he  wished  me  to  study  law.' 

'  And  your  wish  ?  '  inquired  Sir  Everard. 

'  My  wishes  lead  me  to  the  army,'  was  the  reply. 


152  THE    STAUNTONS. 

"T  is  a  bad  school,'  said  the  other, '  in  which  a  scarlet 
jacket  and  a  clanking  sword  often  stand  a  man  in  the 
stead  of  virtue,  knowledge,  modesty,  wit,  and  all 
else  that  makes  life  tolerable  to  others,  or  becoming 
in  itself.  Nevertheless  there  is  one  good  about  it; 
you  have  your  chance  of  being  made  immortal  by 
the  first  bayonet  or  bullet  that  comes  athwart  you ;  and 
then  adieu  to  hope,  to  anxiety,  and  fear,  and  all 
the  ills,  as  our  friend  Shakspere  has  it,  "  which  flesh  is 
heir  to."  ' 

'  And  have  you  felt  so  much  of  hope,  or  anxiety  } ' 
Edward  ventured  to  inquire. 

'  Yes,  —  once  ; '  answered  Sir  Everard  ;  "  once  I 
confess  :  and  now  as  we  have  arrived  at  this  point,  I 
will  condemn  myself  to  relate  something  of  my  history 
to  you.  You  are  a  Staunton,  you  know,  and  are  bound 
to  stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the  family.  So,  when  I 
am  safe  in  my  six-feet  home,  and  turned  to  dust  and 
ashes,  I  leave  you  to  fight  as  many  battles  as  need 
may  be,  for  the  purity  of  my  reputation.  I  have  a 
touch  of  earth  about  me,  you  see,  notwithstanding  my 
philosophy.' 

'  I  wish  from  my  heart,  that  I  could  say  or  do 
anything  to  serve  you,  Sir  Everard,'  said  Edward 
Staunton. 

'  I  am  past  service,  my  good  boy,'  said  the  other 
sadly :  '  but  I  have  a  something  to  do  which  shall  be 
prefaced  by  my  confession.  Look  at  me  !  Why  do 
you  think  I  select  you,  of  whom  I  know  so  little,  for 
the  confidant  of  my  private  history  ?  You  cannot 
guess !     Well,  I  will  help  you.      Did  you  not,  some 


THE    STATTNTONS.  153 

three  months  since,  'tis  scarcely  more,  rescue  a  man 
who  was  beset  by  robbers  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  said  Edward,  '  I  was  luckily  of  use  to  a 
stranger,  one  night,  in  London.  He  was  coming 
from  a  house  near  St.  James's  Square ' 

'  He  was  coming  from  the  gaming-table,  loaded 
with  money,'  interrupted  the  other :  '  he  had  won,  that 
night,  five  thousand  guineas  from  sharpers,  and  they 
wished  for  another  transfer  of  their  gold.  To  eifect 
this,  they  bade  him  stand  and  deliver ;  and  one  of 
them  struck  him  with  his  knife  across  the  temple 
—  just  here,'  added  he,  and  he  thrust  aside  a  cloud  of 
dark  hair,  and  showed  a  huge  cicatrice  in  evidence  of 
his  assertion  ;  '  in  a  word,'  said  Sir  Everard  Staunton, 
*  I  was  the  man  ! ' 

*  How  !  you  } '  said  Edward,  in  astonishment. 

'  Even  so,'  replied  Sir  Everard  ;  '  I  promised,  if  you 
remember,  that  night,  when  I  inquired  your  name, 
that  you  should  hear  further  of  me,  and  you  have 
heard  somewhat  already.  Now  give  me  your  atten- 
tion. I  am  about  to  speak  of  a  subject  which  I  shall 
have  no  opportunity  to  touch  on  again.  I  am  about 
to  confess  to  you  my  weakness  —  my  errors  —  in  a 
word,  to  tell  you  briefly  the  story  of  my  life.     Listen. 

'  I  was  bom  to  great  fortunes,  and  a  noble  name.  I 
was  an  only  child.  My  father  was  proud  of  me  ;  my 
mother  doated  on  me.  Whi/  this  should  be,  I  could 
never  learn  ;  certainly  nqt  for  any  qualities  of  my 
heart  or  head.  It  had  its  origin,  I  suppose,  simply  in 
that  mysterious  charm  which  links  the  parent  to  the 
child,  in  spite  of  all  human  accidents,  —  in  spite  of 


154  THE    STAUNTONS. 

poverty,  and  sickness,  and  crime  in  the  father,  and  of 
all  kinds  of  faults  and  follies  in  the  son. 

'  Well,  my  mother,  this  kind  mother,  died.  She 
was  an  accomplished  lady  —  almost  faultless  ;  one  that 
in  other  times  might  have  stood  as  a  pattern  amongst 
women  —  like  a  Portia  among  wives  —  amongst  mat- 
rons,  like  a  mother  of  the  Gracchi.  But  she  died ; 
and  her  husband,  naturally  sad,  fell  into  irrecoverable 
gloom.  In  the  mean  time  I  sprung  up  into  manhood. 
My  father  and  I  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
We  read  together,  shot,  hunted,  wandered  about  to- 
gether. We  were  brothers  in  intimacy ;  without  his 
losing  the  affection  of  a  father,  or  I  the  respect  of  a 
child.  He  shared  with  me  his  thoughts,  his  inmost 
secrets,  his  fortune,  to  the  utmost  farthing ;  and  1  did 
what  I  could  to  deserve  them.  I  partook  of  his  soli- 
tude ;  I  tried  with  all  my  strength  to  dissipate  his 
sadness.  But  all  would  not  do.  He  left  me,  as  my 
mother  had  left  me  before  ;  and  I  became  the  wealthy 
Sir  Everard  Staunton. 

'  It  was  about  this  time,  that,  not  content  with  other 
ills,  I  must  needs  love.  I  loved  —  God  !  '  exclaimed 
he,  with  uncontrollable  emotion ;  '  how  much,  how 
deeply,  how  truly  !  I  loved  an  angel.  I  cannot  call 
her  a  woman,  who  had  not  one  of  woman's  thousand 
faults.  From  my  soul  I  believe  she  was  as  pure  in 
thought,  as  lovely  in  her  life,  as  the  immaculate  angels 
are.  I  will  not  talk  of  her  beauty,  yet  she  was  sur- 
passingly beautiful ;  I  cannot  analyze  her  person,  and 
spread  out  her  perfections  before  you,  one  by  one,  in 
petty  Epicurean  detail.  She  filled  my  whole  heart. 
She  possessed  every  thought,  every  fancy,  for  a  time  ; 


THE    STAUNTONS. 


155 


and  then,  she  also  died,  and  left  me  to  despair  for 
ever  !  Since  she  fled  away,  —  the  dove  who  brought 
peace  to  my  lonely  life,  —  I  have  never  known  joy  or 
comfort.  Yet  I  survived  her,  —  as  the  base  body  will 
live  on,  when  the  mind  grows  dark  and  perishes  ;  for 
what  purpose,  except  to  sin  and  suffer,  I  know  not.  It 
is  time,'  added  he,  gloomily,  '  that  this  should  end.' 

He  now  paused  for  a  minute,  and  seemed  contend- 
ing with  some  internal  passion,  which  cost  him  a 
struggle  to  vanquish.  The  muscles  of  his  mouth  were 
strongly  agitated,  and  there  was  an  evident  tremor  in 
his  voice,  a  hesitation  in  his  speech,  as  he  proceeded. 

*  I  have  told  you,  how  first  one,  and  another,  and 
then  another,  was  swept  from  the  face  of  the  world,  in 
order  that  I  might  go  down  to  my  grave  alone.  Would 
that  I  had  gone  earlier  !  But  it  was  not  to  be.  I  was 
to  live  as  well  as  die  alone,  and  I  was  to  break  out  once 
from  my  solitude  and  commit  crimes,  that  to  natural 
sadness  have  added  undying  remorse. 

'  I  had  one  friend,  who  was,  when  I  was  a  youth,  like 
a  brother  to  me.  He  was  a  German  nobleman,  and 
was  called  the  Count  Hardensteine.  He  had  come  to 
England  to  complete  his  education,  and  he  had  then, 
after  some  travel,  returned  home,  and  married  a  Span- 
ish lady.  This  woman,  the  Countess  Maria,  was  a 
Phryne  —  a  Circe — a  Calypso  —  or  what  you  will. 
She  had  the  talent  of  a  man  with  the  softness  of  her 
sex,  and  all  the  attractions  of  the  most  dazzling  beauty. 
There  was  lightning  in  her  eyes,  music  on  her  tongue, 
grace  and  a  voluptuous  air  in  every  motion,  and  a 
devil  in  her  heart.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  she  tampered 
with  me,  nor  how  or  wherefore  I  yielded  to  her  pas- 


156  THE    STAUNTONS. 

sion.  Obsen'e,  I  seek  to  extenuate  nothing.  I  played 
the  part  of  a  villain.  I  forgot,  in  one  moment,  years 
and  acts  of  friendship,  and  returned  the  caresses  of 
a  wanton,  whom  fifty  lovers  had  wearied  of  before. 
How  my  friend  could  have  lived  for  years  thus  blindly, 
in  the  wiles  of  an  unprincipled  woman,  is  still  a  mys- 
tery. Yet,  I  believe  that  he  was  ignorant  of  her 
iniquities,  until  the  eyes  of  a  jealous  rival  turned  his 
observation  upon  me. 

'  But  why  do  I  dwell  upon  all  this  ?  I  sinned 
against  my  brother,  and  stood  up  to  expose  myself 
before  his  wrath,  with  a  hearty  wish  that  he  might  not 
aim  in  vain.  We  met,  and,  after  his  bullet  had  sung 
past  my  head,  I  fired  my  weapon  in  the  air,  and  walked 
towards  him  to  explain,  and  entreat  his  pardon.  He 
struck  me  down,  —  me,  who  had  thought  never  to 
endure  such  ignominy  from  the  hand  of  a  created  being. 
He  struck  me,  spurned  me  on  the  ground,  showered 
upon  me  opprobrious  names,  horrible  maledictions,  and 
then  dared  me  to  meet  him  upon  that  fresh  quarrel. 
1  was  mad.  I  stood  again,  and  again  received  his  fire, 
which  harmed  me  not.  Then  it  was  that  I  made  a 
movement  towards  him,  without  discharging  my  pistol; 
he  mistook  me,  and  seizing  another  weapon  was  level- 
ling it  once  more  against  me,  when  the  impulse — I 
know  not  what  —  the  love  of  self,  that  in  such  cases 
reasons  not,  and  admits  of  no  deliberation,  spurred  my 
arm.  I  fired,  and  my  friend  lay,  in  a  moment,  dead 
at  my  feet !  He  was  shot  right  through  the  heart.  He 
did  not  utter  a  single  cry,  so  suddenly  did  he  perish ; 
but  lay  on  the  bloody  ground  before  me  paler  than 
stone,  with   his   eyes  half    open,  looking  reproaches 


THE    STATJNTONS.  157 

that  I  deserved,  and  have  never  for  one  instant  for- 
gotten, 

'  Those  ghastly,  dying  eyes  haunt  me  still,  at  morn, 
and  noon,  and  midnight ;  in  my  dreams  and  rambles  ; 
and  the  consciousness  of  crime  has  placed  a  load  upon 
my  life,  that,  come  what  will,  I  must  now  perforce 
shake  off.' 

Edward  was  about  to  remonstrate. 

*  Speak  not,'  said  Sir  Everard,  hurriedly.  '  I  have 
thought,  and  have  determined.  Some  day  or  other  I 
shall  die  ;  whether  from  sickness,  or  remorse,  or  fear — 
no,  not  fear ;  whether  from  gradual  decay  or  sudden 
murder,  I  know  not ;  but  let  us  stop.  I  can  talk  no 
more  at  present.  I  cannot  now  detail  the  hundred 
minor  ills  that  beset  me  in  every  stage  of  my  progress. 
I  could  tell  how,  from  this  calamity  that  I  have 
recounted,  a  tale  grew  up,  (my  sister  —  ha,  ha, — 
knows  its  origin,)  —  grew  up,  that  I  had  assassinated 
the  husband  as  I  had  seduced  the  wife ;  how  I  was 
shunned  by  my  friends,  acquaintances,  who  would  not 
take  the  trouble  to  investigate  my  story  ;  how  I  flew  to 
gaming  and  became  the  prey  of  sharpers ;  and  how  I 
grew  clear-sighted  in  that  honest  profession;  and  at 
last  could  overcome,  by  mere  skill,  the  most  ingenious 
frauds.  But  my  narrative  is  finished  ;  and  I  now  wish 
to  be  alone.  Go,  therefore,  into  the  adjoining  room, 
for  awhile,  and  leave  me.  I  have  some  papers  to  pre- 
pare which  I  must  write  alone.  It  is  my  wish,  my 
desire,  that,  when  I  die,  you  will  read  and  not  neglect 
them.     Promise  me  this ! ' 

*  I  promise,'  replied  Edward,  'but —  ' 

*  Fear  not,'  said  the  other.     '  Fear  not,  'tis  well,  and 


158  THE    STAUNTONS. 

I  thank  you.'  He  took  the  young  man's  hand  in  his 
own,  and  grasped  it  cordially.  '  Now  leave  me,'  said 
he,  '  without  more  ado.  You  shall  hear  when  I  require 
your  presence.' 

Edward  left  the  room  in  obedience  to  his  friend's 
request,  and  proceeded  into  an  adjoining  apartment, 
where  he  found  a  small  lamp  burning  (it  was  the 
closet  adjoining  Sir  Everard's  bed -room)  ;  and  there, 
excited  and  wearied  with  the  interview  that  we  have 
endeavored  to  relate,  he  sat  down  to  rest  his  nerves, 
amidst  the  absolute  stillness  that  prevailed. 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  more  impressive  than  this 
dark  and  unbroken  night  silence.  There  is,  indeed, 
something  unutterably  solemn  in  the  tones  wherein  the 
sea  and  mountains  sometimes  deign  to  speak.  Even 
the  wind,  which  blows  as  it  listeth,  and  the  river  which 
wanders  at  its  will,  have  tongues  and  whispers  which 
are  unaccountably  awful  to  those  who  brood  over  their 
words.  Yet  we  associate  with  these  children  of  nature, 
perhaps,  a  feeling  which  belongs  solely  to  ourselves, 
and  mark  in  their  several  movements  the  reflection 
only  of  our  own  wonder  and  delight.  Who  ever  lis- 
tened to  the  brook  bubbling  along  the  spring  meadows, 
without  attributing  to  it  the  cheerfulness  which  it 
infused  into  his  mind  ?  Yet  the  torrent  of  Winter 
bounds  onward  with  as  much  glee  as  the  river  of 
Spring.  And  who  ever  hearkened  to  the  sound  of 
the  earthquake  or  the  disturbed  ocean,  without  invest- 
ing it  with  qualities  bred  only  in  his  own  sensations, 
and  attributing  to  it  words  and  menaces  written  only 
on  the  page  of  his  own  disturbed  heart .''  To  all  these 
things,  tender  or  fearful  as  they  may  be,  we  affix  the 


THE    STATTNTONS.  159 

idea  of  life,  of  strength,  or  youth,  gladness  or  power. 
But  for  Silence,  the  solemn  starry  Silence,  who  wraps 
all  the  world  at  once  as  with  a  pall,  and  who,  though 
she  speaks  not  and  moves  not,  makes  her  awful  way 
into  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  human  heart,  there 
is  no  similitude,  no  metaphor  that  links  her  to  our 
being ;  or,  if  there  be  one,  it  is  only  that  one  which 
talks  to  us  of  a  dim  'hereafter' — that  fear,  which 
stands  like  a  ghostly  dream  before  our  fancy,  the 
shadowy  and  immeasurable  phantom  of — Death! 

It  was  somewhat  thus  that  the  current  of  Edward 
Staunton's  thoughts  ran,  as  he  sate  looking  at  the 
flickering  of  the  little  lamp  before  him,  when  sud- 
denly, without  any  previous  noise  or  note  of  prepara- 
tion, a  thundering  explosion  was  heard  in  the  adjoining 
room.  It  was  as  though  several  cases  of  fire-arms 
had  been  discharged  at  once.  Edward  started  up,  and 
in  an  instant  —  as  soon,  at  least,  as  he  could  recover 
his  recollection — tore  open  the  library  door,  and  be- 
held Sir  Everard  Staunton  in  his  chair  utterly  dead ! 
His  neck  was  bent,  his  head  lying  useless  on  his 
shoulder,  while  from  his  broad  fine  temples,  through 
which  the  blue  veins  once  branched  and  wandered, 
came  spouting  out  a  stream  of  blood  and  gore.  A 
bullet  had  penetrated  his  brain. 

What  young  Staunton  did,  how  he  summoned  the 
servants,  or  whether  they  were  roused  by  the  noise 
that  had  occurred,  we  are  not  able  to  detail.  Nor  is 
it  of  any  importance.  It  appeared,  however,  that  the 
unfortunate  man  had  written  several  letters,  one  of 
which  was  addressed  to  his  servant  Darford,  and 
another  to  Edward  Staunton,  to  *  Sir  Edward  Staun- 


160  THE    STAUNTONS. 

ton.'  The  youth  was  shocked  at  this  first  intimation 
of  his  title,  and  with  difficuUy  deciphered  his  cousin's 
writing.     It  ran,  however,  thus  :  — 

*  Cousin,  —  I  leave  you  a  large  fortune  and  a  noble 
name.  Take  care  of  both,  and  do  —  what  I  could 
never  do  —  enjoy  them ! 

*  As  far  as  I  may,  I  confirm  to  you  the  estates 
which  my  father  bequeathed  to  you  in  case  I  should 
perish  childless.  While  you  are  reading  these  my  last 
words,  this  will  already  have  happened.  I  leave  no 
child,  not  even  a  friend,  save  yourself,  behind  me. 
And  this  is  well,  for  I  would  cause  regret  to  no  one. 

'  Farewell,  Sir  Edward  Staunton.  If  ever  you  think 
of  the  last  who  owned  that  ancient  name,  pity  him, 
pray  for  him.  He  wished  to  live  on  and  endure,  but 
he  could  not  do  this.  There  was  nothing  for  him  but 
madness  or  the  grave,  and  the  last  he  hoped  would 
be  at  least  a  shelter.  Pray  for  him  that  it  may  be 
so!    Pray  from  your  heart !    Farewell!  E.  S.' 

Edward  fell  on  his  knees  involuntarily  as  he  read  this 
last  record  of  Sir  Everard  Staunton.  He  prayed  fer- 
Yently  and  '  from  his  heart,'  that  pardon  might  be 
awarded  to  the  mistaken  man  —  turned  round  and 
saw  that  the  servant  (Darford)  was  weeping  over  the 
last  testimony  of  his  master's  kindness,  and  himself 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Such  is  the  account  given  by  the  late  steward  of  the 

family,  of  the  manner  in  which  the  estates  passed 

into  the  hands  of  their  possessor,  in  the  year  1757.  He 
added,  that  the  gentleman  who  is  above  designated  as 


THE    STAUNTONS.  161 

Edward  Staunton,  took  possession  of  the  property 
without  opposition,  and  enjoyed  it  between  thirty  and 
forty  years,  at  the  expiration  of  which  time  he  died. 
During  his  life  he  allowed  a  substantial  annuity  to  the 
sister  of  Sir  Everard,  and  presented  her  son  with  a 
considerable  sum  of  money,  but  he  would  hold  no 
personal  intercourse  with  either.  It  was  never  known 
what  had  induced  Sir  Everard  Staunton  to  commit 
suicide  so  much  more  suddenly  than  he  seemed  origi- 
nally to  have  contemplated.  Probably,  however,  it 
was  from  some  impulse  of  despair  which  could  not 
bear  suspense,  or  even  its  own  weight  any  longer. 
That  he  actually  did  what  we  have  detailed  is  an 
undoubted  fact,  and  as  all  parties  have  died  long  since, 
there  can  be  no  impropriety  in  now  making  the  story 
public. 

1828. 


11 


A  CHAPTER  ON  PORTRAITS. 


Of  all  the  Souvenirs,  and  Keepsakes,  and  Bijoux  — 
of  all  the  Christmas-boxes,  Amulets,  and  Gems,  Anni- 
versaries, and  Forget-me-nots,  (flowers  of  cold  weather) 
—  of  all  the  presents  with  which  we  should  choose  to 
commemorate  a  birthday,  or  a  festival,  or  to  offer  to 
one  whom  we  regard,  as  an  indication  of  good-will  or 
friendship,  we  think  we  should  select  a  portrait ;  a  por- 
trait, perhaps  our  own.  It  should  not  be  cast  in  ginger- 
bread, which  would  be  too  provocative  ;  nor  in  brass, 
which  would  be  out  of  character  ;  nor  in  paper,  for  we 
are  already  but  too  inflammable ;  neither  should  we 
desire  to  ride  on  boys'  shoulders,  triumphant  in  pipe- 
clay, smeared  over  with  blue  and  scarlet,  immortal  as 
plaister  could  make  us,  amongst  Dukes  of  Wellington, 
and  Napoleons,  amongst  dumb  Paul  Prys,  and  silent 
parrots.  An  humbler  lot  be  ours.  We  should  scarcely 
choose  to  look  out  from  a  snuff-box,  blazing  with  bril- 
liants, for  it  would  be  too  imperial,  and  we  might,  for 
the  first  time,  forget  ourselves. 

We  have  said  that  it  should,  perhaps,  be  a  portrait  of 
ourself  (selves) ;  but  we  recall  our  words.  We  are 
inclined   to  abandon  that  agreeable    notion.     At    all 


A    CHAPTER    ON    PORTRAITS.  163 

events,  it  should  not  always  represent  our  own  features, 
to  the  exclusion  of  philosophers  and  heroes.  We 
would  not  invariably  usurp  the  place  of  Shakspere  andi 
Bacon.  We  do  not  love  ourselves  so  immeasurably. 
Some  face,  however,  which  we  love  or  respect,  it 
should  ever  be;  in  preference  even  to  a  hamper  of 
Johannisberg  or  a  case  of  Lafitte,  or  a  haunch  of  the 
bravest  buck  that  ever  nipped  the  grass  of  a  Scottish 
moor. 

There  is  something  delightful  in  the  intercourse  which 
we  hold  with  another's  likeness.  It  is  himself,  only 
once  removed ;  he  is  visible,  not  tangible  :  we  have 
his  moiety.  In  a  picture  of  history,  there  is  often 
indeed  more  to  admire  than  on  the  mere  face  of  one 
individual,  man  or  woman.  There  is  more  room  for 
the  skill  of  the  artist ;  it  is  better  adapted  to  exemplify 
a  moral.  But  the  sentiment  that  chains  us  to  the  other, 
is  wanting  ;  we  are  noifamiUar  with  it.  One  is  a  brave 
matter,  a  splendid  thing;  the  other  is  a  person,  and 
becomes  our  friend.  We  would  never  worship,  as- 
some  do,  the  complicated  strife  of  arms,  and  legs,  and 
shoulders ;  or  think  only  of  the  way  in  which  each  is 
subdued  by  the  painter,  and  made,  by  the  wonders  of 
light  and  shade,  to  represent  a  great  event.  We  would 
rather  look  upon  the  eyes  of  some  Italian  'Dama,' 
whom  Titian  or  Giorgione  painted  long  ago  without 
a  name,  and  catalogued  only  as  '  Portrait  of  a  lady ; ' 
or  face  one  of  Titian's  piercing  heads,  (a  noble  of 
Venice  or  Rome,)  than  sit  down  before  the  most  elabo- 
rate composition  of  history,  or  see  brought  out  in 
dazzling  array  before  us,  all  the  battles  of  Alexander, 
or  all  the  triumphs  or  processions  of  the  Cffisars. 


164  A   CHAPTER    ON    PORTRAITS. 

We  were  exceedingly  struck  by  the  delicacy  of  two 
or  three  friends,  who  conspired  lately  to  give  an  old 
acquaintance  pleasure  on  his  return  from  a  distant  part 
of  India.  His  wife  had  been  obliged  to  come  to  Eng- 
land for  her  health,  and  his  friends  secretly  caused  her 
portrait  to  be  painted,  in  order  that  on  his  return  to 
Madras  or  Bengal  he  might  find  the  likeness  at  least  of 
her  who  was  dearest  to  him  in  the  world.  It  is  thus 
that  the  form  and  features  of  the  child  are  made  known 
to  its  pining  parents  afar  off.  It  is  thus  that  the  places 
which  we  loved  to  look  upon,  are  redeemed  from  the 
grave,  and  sent  to  us,  across  deserts,  and  woods,  and 
mountains,  or  over  a  thousand  leagues  of  water.  This 
is  the  greatest  boast  of  art,  as  well  as  the  most  delight- 
ful victory.  It  annihilates  space,  if  not  time,  and  makes 
the  absent  happy. 

An  historical  scene  is  a  fiction  merely.  Be  it  ever 
so  true  to  nature,  it  is  still  the  fiction  of  the  painter. 
But  a  portrait  is  truth  itself.  No  imagination  can 
compete  with  it ;  it  is  either  the  very  thing  we  desire, 
or  nothing  ;  all  depends  on  its  truth.  Even  in  a 
portrait,  to  use  the  term,  of  inanimate  nature,  what 
assemblage  of  cataracts,  and  hills  and  forests ;  what 
glories  of  sunset  or  meridian  may  compete  with  the 
little  landscape,  which  restores  to  us  the  scene  of  our 
own  quiet  home,  which  brings  before  us  our  childhood, 
the  tree  under  which  we  have  played,  the  river  beside 
which  we  have  slept  or  sported  ?  Art,  which  never 
addresses  itself,  strictly  speaking,  to  our  reason,  is 
valuable  only  in  proportion  as  it  operates  upon  our 
feelings  ;  these  are  seldom  (and  then  but  little)  excited 
by  the  mere  invention  of  a  painter ;  we  rather  sympa- 


A    CHAPTER    ON    PORTRAITS.  165 

thize  with  Ms  difficulties ;  we  congratulate  him  upon 
his  success;  we  say,  '  How  admirably  has  he  grouped 
those  figures  !  How  finely  are  the  light  and  shade 
distributed !  what  grand  expression !  what  dramatic 
effect ! '  We  look  upon  the  artist  as  a  hero ;  he  has 
done  so  much  —  for  his  own  fame.  But  he  who  gives 
us  the  very  smile  which  won  or  warms  our  hearts,  the 
frank  or  venerable  aspect  of  our  friend  or  father,  the 
dawning  beauty  of  our  child,  or  shows  us  the  tender 
eyes  with  which  the  wife  or  mother  looks  love  upon  us 
from  a  distant  region,  he  seems  to  have  thought  of  us 
rather  than  of  his  own  renown,  and  becomes  at  once 
our  benefactor  and  our  friend. 

It  is  very  pleasant,  to  our  thinking,  to  traverse  some 
country  mansion,  where  the  portraits  of  its  former 
owners  hang  up  side  by  side  with  each  other ;  frail 
records,  it  is  true,  of  vanity  and  glory  !  We  love  to 
trace  them  upwards  into  absolute  barbarism ;  to  mail- 
ed, bearded,  ferocious  warriors,  powerful,  and  —  for- 
gotten. And  among  them,  it  is  hard  if  we  cannot 
detect  one  whom  learning  or  science  has  honored  —  a 
poet,  a  monk,  or  a  philosopher ;  perhaps  one  even, 
whom  Love  has  made  immortal.  We  once  saw  such  a 
one.  There  he  was,  with  nobility  on  his  forehead, 
and  sadness  in  his  eye,  —  the  humbled  inheritor  of  a 
proud  name,  the  impoverished  master  of  thousands  ! 
Can  we  help  pitying  such  a  sufferer  ?  We  see  him, 
and  pass  on  —  we  see  another  —  and  another  —  and 
another :  but  he  still  remains  fixed  in  our  memory  ; 
*  hfBvet  lateri  lethalis  arundo ; '  and  we  turn  back 
after  viewing  all  the  rest,  once  more  to  sympathize 
with  him  alone.     We  say,  '  Rich  one  !  are  you  there 


166  A    CHAPTER    ON    PORTRAITS. 

Still  ?  —  still  pale,  and  dumb,  and  melancholy  ?  Had 
the  foul  fiend  so  seized  upon  you,  that  not  even  the 
flattering  painter  could  take  the  sorrow  from  your  eye 
—  the  sting  that  had  ran  piercing  through  your  heart  ? 
'  Faith,  you  are  fallen  indeed. 

Let  not  the  reader  suppose,  from  what  we  have  said, 
that  we  are  wanting  in  a  due  respect  for  the  illustrious 
painters  who  have  conferred  honor  upon  art ;  wc  love 
or  admire  them  all.  We  can  pore  over  a  book  of 
prints,  even,  and  forget  ourselves  among  the  old  mas- 
ters of  the  Italian  school  of  painting.  We  can  begin 
with  Giotto,  and  go  on  untired,  to  the  last  of  the  school 
of  the  Carracci.  There  is  great  fervor,  and  (so  to 
speak)  devotion  of  spirit  in  some  of  Giotto's  works. 
Did  the  reader  ever  see  his  two  saintly  heads,  in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  Rogers,  the  poet  ?  There  is  great 
skill  and  some  grandeur  in  Massaccio,  and  infinite 
beauty  in  Perugino.  Then,  there  are  the  quaint  love- 
liness of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  —  the  frowning  power  of 
Michael  Angelo,  —  the  splendors  of  Giorgione  and 
Titian,  —  the  suavity  of  Correggio,  —  and  the  life,  and 
spirit,  and  beauty,  —  the  grace,  and  intelligence,  and 
unequalled  propriety  of  Raffaelle  !  There  too  are 
Guido's  pale  heads,  and  Domenichino's  divine  expres- 
sions !  —  the  stern  realities  of  Annibal,  —  the  touch- 
ing looks  of  Fra  Bartolomeo,  —  the  halcyon  skies  of 
Claude, — and  the  stormy  landscapes  of  Salvator  Rosa! 
In  a  word,  all  that  beauty  and  power,  or  the  spirit  of 
religion  and  love  have  dictated,  —  all  that  great  Nature 
herself  has  taught,  are  therein  assembled,  to  delight 
whomsover  has  the  taste  to  value  them.  The  most 
radiant  visions  open  themselves  upon  us ;  —  the  gran- 


A   CHAPTER    ON   PORTRAITS. 


167 


deur  of  the  old  world  —  the  fantastic  eloquence  of  the 
new  —  the  creation  of  Adam — the  visage  of  Csesar — 
Cleopatra  and  her  asp  —  Roman  temples,  Egyptian 
pyramids,  —  angels,  and  hierarchs,  and  prophets  — 
warriors  of  all  times  —  women,  lovelier  and  more  amia- 
ble than  the  rainbow,  —  all  are  brought  back  before  us 
by  a  power  greater  than  that  of  Prospero's  wand. 
And  can  we  refuse  our  homage  ?  No ;  we  gaze, 
and  acknowledge  that,  even  in  its  degradation  and 
decline,  Italy  had  still  some  spirits  able  to  perpetuate 
her  glorj',  and,  in  some  degree,  even  to  elevate  her 
name  ! 


168  A    CHAPTER    ON    POKTRAITS. 

for  a  moment  doubt  but  that  they  are  the  true  repre- 
sentations of  those  famous  men.  RafTaelle's  life  was 
employed  on  works  of  imagination,  such  as  no  one 
else   has    equalled ;  but   he    could    descend    from    the 

*  dignity  of  history,'  as  it  is  called,  and  submit  to 
transcribe  a  faithful  lesson  of  nature,  like  one  of  a 
less  gifted  intellect. 

We  can  scarcely  imagine,  indeed,  a  thing  much 
more  pleasant  to  an  artist,  than  to  be  brought  face  to 
face  with  some  famous  person,  and  permitted  to 
examine  and  scrutinize  his  features,  with  that  careful 
and  intense  curiosity  that  seems  necessary  to  perfect- 
ing a  likeness.  It  must  have  been  to  Raffaelle  at  once 
a  relaxation  from  his  ordinary  study,  and  a  circum- 
stance interesting  in  itself,  thus  to  look  into  faces  so 
full  of  meaning  as  those  of  Julius  and  Leo,  and  to  say, 

*  That  look,  that  glance  which  seems  so  transient,  will 
I  fix  for  ever.  Thus  shall  it  be  seen,  with  that  exact 
expression  (although  it  lasted  but  for  an  instant),  five 
hundred  years  after  he  shall  be  dust  and  ashes  ! ' 

Shall  we  go  on.-*  No.  All,  or  most  of  what  we 
had  to  say,  is  said  ;  and  now  —  it  is  time  to  stop. 

1829. 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 


It  was  a  custom,  some  years  ago,  with  a  few  young 
men,  to  meet  together  once  a  week  at  each  other's 
houses,  and  to  communicate  their  ideas  in  writing. 
These  productions  were  always  read  and  left  at  the 
house  of  the  entertainer,  who  returned,  with  a  cold 
supper,  a  small  portion  of  the  good  that  he  received  in 
the  shape  of  imagination  and  wit.  Every  person,  as  I 
have  said,  communicated  his  ideas,  but  no  one  was 
bound  to  any  particular  subject.  Each  one  was  to  do 
his  best.  He  who  could  not  write  prose  was  allowed 
to  take  refuge  in  rhyme.  He  who  could  not  be  enter- 
taining was  permitted  to  be  learned.  *  We  can  sleep, 
at  all  events,'  said  one  of  the  body,  when  a  person  of 
indifferent  merit  was  proposed.  In  a  word,  one  or  two 
members  of  unknown  talent  were  admitted  into  our 
party  (which  was  to  consist  of  a  dozen),  and  among 
the  rest  an  old  gentleman  in  spectacles,  of  a  some- 
what saturnine  aspect,  from  whom  we  expected  to 
receive  at  least  an  Essay  on  Optics,  but  who,  to 
our  infinite  surprise,  presented  us  with  the  following 
anecdote.     (The  circumstance  of  my  being  host  of  the 


170  THE    PKISON-BREAKEE. 

evening  will  account  for  my  possession  of  the  manu- 
script.) 

It  was  thus  our  sexagenarian  began  :  — 
*  I  am  an  old  man,  almost  sixty.  Some  of  my 
vivacity  is  perhaps  gone  ;  certainly  all  my  sentimen- 
tality has  vanished.  My  "  sallad  days "  are  over ! 
Instead  of  manufacturing  bad  rhymes  and  groaning  at 
the  moon  —  instead  of  sighing,  after  a  villainous 
fashion,  at  every  mantua-maker  I  meet  —  I  set  down 
my  thoughts  in  level  prose ;  I  sun  myself  leisurely  at 
mid-day,  and  I  care  no  more  for  a  milliner  than  I  do 
for  a  mouse-trap.  All  this  philosophy  I  have  learned 
in  the  great  school  of  old  age,  where  one  gets  wisdom 
in  return  for  giving  up  all  one's  enjoyments.  Yet  these 
matters  may  be  drawbacks  with  some  persons,  —  and 
if  so  I  am  willing  to  be  silent.  If,  however,  there  be 
any  one  who  shall  still  desire  "  a  touch  of  my  quality," 
let  him  proceed  with  the  following  narrative.  It  is,  I 
assure  him,  every  tittle  of  it  true :  — 

'  About  five  or  six-and-twenty  years  ago  I  went  to 
reside  at  Charwood,  a  little  village  in  the  south-west 
part  of  England.  Charwood  is  a  pretty  spot  —  a  green, 
out-o'-the-way  place,  with  a  semicircular  wood  crown- 
ing the  high  land  above  it,  and  a  brisk,  glittering  trout 
stream  running  away  at  its  foot.  The  reader  must 
understand  that  I  was  not  a  recluse.  I  did  not  shut 
myself  up,  like  the  Hermit  of  Tong,  and  let  my  beard 
grow  for  a  recompense  of  half  a  crown  per  week.  I 
did  not  even  retreat  to  this  seclusion  from  any  lofty 
misanthropy.  I  liked  the  world  well  enough  —  I  had 
no  cause  for  dislike.  My  play  had  not  been  damned, 
my  wife  had  not  run  away,  I  had  not  been  kicked  or 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  171 

caned  at  Newmarket  or  Brookes's.     In  short,  I  was 
very  comfortable,  and  —  a  bachelor. 

*  And  now  to  begin  with  my  stoiy.  It  is  to  be 
owned  that  I  commence  under  some  disadvantages. 
My  heroine  is  the  last  in  the  world  that  a  novelist 
would  have  selected.  She  had  scarcely  any  of  the 
ordinary  qualities  which  allure  from  the  eyes  of  ladies' 
maids  and  sempstresses  such  rivers  of  tears.  She 
was  neither  romantic  nor  mysterious,  nor  fond  of 
sighing ;  she  had  no  confidante,  and  was  not  devoured 
by  a  "secret  sorrow."  I, scarcely  know  how,  with 
such  defects,  I  can  contrive  to  infuse  any  portion  of 
interest  into  her  narrative.  But  I  have  undertaken  her 
little  history,  and  must  do  the  best  I  can.  Little  Sophy 
Ellesmere  (for  that  was  her  name)  was  the  daughter 
of  a  small  landed  proprietor  in  Charwood.  She  was 
an  only  child  —  the  offspring  of  a  selfish,  wilful  father, 
and  a  patient,  housewife-like  little  woman,  who,  through 
twenty  years  of  her  ill-assorted  union,  endured  more 
troubles  than  were  ever  borne  by  any  one,  except 
those  who  have  suffered  under  that  most  damnable  of 
human  vices  —  domestic  tyranny.  Sophy  had  some- 
thing of  her  father's  wilfulness,  and  all  her  mother's 
kindness  of  heart.  She  was,  moreover,  sufficiently 
spoiled  by  both  ;  just  enough  to  save  her  from  the 
disgrace  of  being  a  common  heroine.  She  had  her 
full  share  of  faults,  and  a  few  virtues.  These  things 
grow  up  together  in  Charwood  like  weeds  and  flowers, 
although,  in  the  illuminated  Leadenhall  MSS.  they  are 
kept  carefully  apart,  lest  human  folly  should  be 
mimicked  too  closely,  and  nature  be  pronounced  a 
libel. 


172  THE   PRISON-BREAKER. 

*  Our  little  girl  was  lively,  good-hearted,  headstrong, 
passionate  ;  as  wild  as  a  colt,  and  as  brave  as  a  lion. 
In  respect  of  her  person,  she  was  not  perfectly  beau- 
tiful; on  the  contrary,  she  was  almost  as  brown  as  a 
gipsy,  had  irregular  features,  dark,  piercing  eyes, 
and  lips  like  a  Moresco.  These  defects  were,  it  is 
true,  redeemed  by  certain  beauties ;  for  with  piercing 
eyes  (whose  intense  expression  amounted  almost  to 
the  painful,)  a  sweet  smile,  unblemished  teeth,  and 
a  figure  that  would  have  graced  a  Dryad,  she  could 
not  have  been  said  to  be  utterly  without  beauty.  Such 
as  she  was,  the  reader  (the  "  courteous  reader")  will, 
I  make  no  doubt,  regard  her  with  interest  —  if  he 
can. 

'  When  Sophy  was  about  sixteen  years  of  age  she 
became  an  orphan.  Both  her  parents  died  in  the  same 
week  —  the  one  through  some  fit  (of  apoplexy  or 
paralysis,)  caused  by  violent  passion ;  the  other  by 
incessant  watching,  by  exposure  and  agitation,  each 
operating  upon  a  constitution  that  had  been  previously 
undermined  by  ill-treatment  and  disease.  They  died  ; 
and  Sophy,  to  whose  mind  death  had  never  occurred 
before,  found  herself,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
utterly  alone. 

'  It  is  at  such  times  that  the  mind  gives  way  or 
matures  itself.  The  weak  one  despairs  and  falls  ;  but 
that  which  is  strong  collects  its  strength,  and  prepares 
to  struggle  with  adversity,  and  to  run  a  race  with 
Fortune.  Our  heroine  was  of  the  stronger  order  ;  but 
she  had  loved  her  mother  tenderly,  although  the  gaiety 
of  her  temperament  had  somewhat  abated  the  show 
of  those  filial  attentions  which   quieter  children  love 


THE    PRISON-BREAKEE.  173 

to  exhibit.  Now,  however,  that  both  parents  were 
gone,  her  grief  became  for  a  time  uncontrollable. 
For  a  time,  I  say  ;  because  her  spirit,  naturally  firm 
and  aspiring,  rose  up  from  the  sickliness  of  useless 
sorrow,  and  put  on  once  more  a  healthful  aspect.  In 
her  endeavors  to  regain  serenity  she  was  assisted  by 
the  good  counsel  of  a  friend.  This  friend  was  a 
female,  a  foreigner,  a  native  of  Padua,  "  learned 
Padua,"  and  under  her  auspices  the  little  Sophy,  who 
had  originally  begun  with  her  a  course  of  French  and 
Italian,  now  took  lessons  in  a  more  useful  science  — 
namely,  that  of  practical  philosophy.  Madame  de 
Mercet  at  first  wept  with  her  pupil,  afterwards  soothed 
her,  and  finally  reasoned  her  into  tranquillity.  I  be- 
lieve, indeed,  that  the  relation  of  her  own  little  history 
had  more  effect  in  quieting  the  mind  of  the  mourner 
than  any  argument ;  for  she  thus  learned  all  that  the 
fair  foreigner  had  suffered,  and  her  own  sorrows  shrank 
in  importance. 

*  Madame  de  Mercet  was  a  dutiful  daughter,  a  happy 
wife,  and  a  fond  mother,  when  she  was  suddenly  made 
an  orphan  and  a  motherless  widow  by  the  Liberado'rs 
of  St.  Antoine,  at  the  time  that  they  sacrificed  science, 
and  art,  and  knowledge  of  all  sorts,  to  the  unreasonable 
Goddess  of  Reason.  The  mother  of  Madame  de  Mercet 
died  in  a  revolutionary  prison,  and  she  herself,  and  her 
husband,  were  suspected  of  incivism,  and  invited  to 
attend  at  the  Place  de  Greve.  They  went,  accompa- 
nied by  great  honors  —  a  shining  array  of  sabres  and 
sans-culottes  —  and  must  have  both  perished  amidst  the 
execrations  of  regenerated  France,  but  for  one  trifling 
circumstance.     M.  de  Mercet  had  luckily  been  of  ser- 


174  THE   PRISOX-BEEAKER, 

vice  once  to  Citoyen  La  Lanterne  (formerly  un  cordon- 
nier),  and  the  citizen  had  committed  great  benefits  on 
the  Republic.  At  his  intercession,  a  reprieve  was  sent 
when  the  De  Mercets  were  at  the  scafTold.  They  were 
declared  innocent  more  suddenly  than  they  had  been 
pronounced  guilty  ;  they  were  hailed  and  wept  over ; 
and  Madame  de  Mercet  after  having  received  the  kiss 
of  fraternitv'  about  eleven  hundred  times,  after  hearing 
her  name  screamed  out  and  lauded  till  the  tj'mpanum 
of  her  ear  was  almost  broken,  was,  with  her  husband 
escorted  back  to  their  hotel  with  the  same  honors  that 
surrounded  them  in  their  progress.  Indeed,  the  only 
difference  between  the  going  and  return  was,  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Mercet  left  his  head  to  grace  the  boards  of  the 
scaffold,  the  reprieve  having  come,  for  him,  just  three 
minutes  too  late.  After  this,  Madame  took  an  unac- 
countable aversion  to  the  good  city  of  Paris,  and  her 
child  dying  soon  after,  (from  a  mixture  of  terror  and 
distress,)  she  packed  up  her  jewels  secretly,  obtained 
by  some  interest  a  passport  to  Frankfort,  and  thence 
proceeded  to  England,  where  she  finally  settled  at  the 
village  of  Charwood,  and  became  the  tutoress  of  the 
little  Sophy ;   to  whom  it  is  now  time  to  return. 

'  Six  days  after  the  death  of  her  parents,  Sophy  Elles- 
mere  (now  sixteen  years  of  age)  heard  the  will  of  her 
father  read,  and  found  herself  placed  under  the  guar- 
dianship of  Mr.  Dacre,  a  friend  and  occasional  visitor  of 
her  father,  but  with  whom  she  had  till  then  had  but  little 
intercourse.  ]\Ir.  Dacre  was  the  husband  of  a  lady 
whose  good  or  bad  qualities  need  not  delay  us,  inas- 
much as  she  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  present  narra- 
tive ;  but  he  was  also  the  father  of  Harry  Dacre,  who 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  175 

was  a  person  of  more  importance  to  our  story.  Harry 
Dacre  it  was  who  fell  in  love  with  our  heroine. 

'  We  do  not  mean  to  wax  tedious  in  detailing  the 
loves  of  young  Dacre  and  Sophy  EUesmere.  We  shall 
cut  the  matter  short,  by  saying  simply  that  they  fell  over 
head-and-ears  in  love  according  to  the  most  approved 
fashion.  They  sighed,  and  whispered,  and  languished, 
and  looked  unutterable  things.  The  young  man  swore 
that  he  could  not  live  without  her ;  she  vowed  on  her 
part  to  be  eternally  his;  and,  indeed,  the  girl  had  a 
heart  that  was  worth  the  winning  —  open,  honest,  and 
constant.  The  youth  was  sincere  enough  in  his  profes- 
sions, for  he  was  furiously  in  love  ;  but  his  heart  owned 
more  attractions  than  towards  the  one  true  magnet.  It 
was  allured  by  a  cockade  and  a  scarlet  jacket  so 
effectually,  indeed,  that  at  the  age  of  twenty,  his  father 
(persuaded  that  his  son  would  turn  out  a  hero)  pur- 
chased a  cometcy  for  him,  in  order  that  he  might  bring 
down  fame  upon  himself  and  family. 

'  Comet  Dacre  very  speedily  showed  himself  to  be 
an  "  altered  man."  With  a  sword  by  his  side,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  yards  of  gold  lace  upon  his  person, 
he  appeared  to  have  forgotten  all  the  whippings  of  his 
school-days,  and  walked  as  though  he  had  won  the 
victories  both  of  Blenheim  and  Ramilies.  Once,  he 
was  as  "  modest  as  morning "  towards  strangers, 
although  a  Hector  with  his  inferiors;  now,  he  was 
"  whiskered  like  a  pard  ;  "  spurred  like  a  fighting-cock  ; 
"full  of  sound  and  fuiy,"  and,  to  justify  the  complete 
quotation,  he  also,  it  must  be  owned,  signified  "  noth- 
ing!" 

•  It  was  not  his  fortune  to  remain  unemployed.     His 


176  THE   PKISON-BHEAKEK. 

country  required  his  services.  She  invited  him,  his 
sabre,  his  gold  lace,  his  whiskers,  and  other  append- 
ages, to  ride  forward  and  strike  terror  into  the  French. 
He  yielded  —  not  with  alacrity,  for  some  of  his  errors 
were  on  the  side  of  discretion  —  but  obediently,  be- 
cause he  did  not  dare  to  draw  back.  Shame  is  often 
the  spur  to  youthful  minds.  It  sends  forward  the  as  yet 
untempered  spirit  by  its  recoil,  and  transmutes  mere 
boys  to  heroes.  It  was  not  without  its  effect  even  on 
Dacre,  who,  backed  by  a  thousand  or  two  of  his  com- 
rades, plunged  carelessly  enough  into  the  melee,  and 
was  taken  prisoner  at  the  first  charge,  conducted  in 
due  time  to  Verdun,  and  afterwards,  on  attempting  to 
escape,  was  finally  lodged  in  the  formidable  fortress  of 
Bitche. 

'  To  this  place  it  was  that  Sophy  Ellesmere  was  des- 
tined to  go.  She  did  not  indeed  know  the  precise  spot 
where  her  lover  was  confined ;  but  she  knew  that  he 
was  a  prisoner,  and  resolved  to  attempt  his  rescue.  It 
was  in  vain  to  contend  or  to  reason.  Like  many 
resolute  spirits,  she  had  a  grain  or  too  of  the  vice  of 
obstinacy  mingled  with  her  courage ;  and  after  hearing 
all  that  could  be  said  against  her  enterprise,  she  equip- 
ped herself  secretly,  and,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  set  out 
upon  one  of  the  most  romantic  expeditions  that  have 
distinguished  modern  adventure. 

'  It  was  a  long  journey  for  a  yoimg  girl  to  undertake, 
— to  go  alone  as  far  as  Copenhagen,  and  thence  through 
many  of  the  States  of  Germany,  into  France  itself, 
then  a  hostile  country.  Apparently  it  was  a  needless 
circuit ;  but  at  that  time  all  the  ports  of  the  Continent 
were  shut  against  us,  and  Denmark  alone  remained 


THE    PHISON-BEEAKEH.  177 

neutral.  To  Denmark,  therefore,  it  was  necessary  to 
go.  I  do  not  mean  to  detain  the  reader  with  the 
thousand  difficulties  that  beset  our  heroine  in  passing 
from  Denmark,  through  Holstein,  by  Hamburg.  Bre- 
men, Minden,  (once  red  Avith  slaughter,  although 
then 

"  All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow,") 

Cassel,  Frankfort,  Heidelburg,  (ten  times  renowned  for 
its  tun  of  Rhenish,)  until  she  set  foot  in  the  pretty^ 
States  of  Baden.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  she  arrived 
there,  and  found,  without  much  difficulty,  the  house  of 
M.  Yilleneuve,  who  had  married  the  sister  of  her  friencb 
De  Mercet,  and  who,  with  his  wife,  received  her  withi 
distinguished  kindness.  M.  Villeneuve  lived  at  Baden 
in  great  retirement ;  free  from  all  suspicion,  however, 
the  names  of  himself  and  family  having  been  erased 
from  the  list  of  emigrants,  and  some  portion  of  his 
property  restored;  but  not  without  anxiety  regarding 
their  son  Henri,  whose  imagination  had  taken  fire  at 
the  splendid  exploits  of  Napoleon,  and  who  himself 
had  rushed  into  the  French  ranks,  and  had  already 
risen  to  the  dignity  of  serjeant.  "  He  is  not  far  from 
us,"  said  Madame  Villeneuve,  "  which  comforts^  me, 
although  he  complains  bitterly  of  being  appointed  to. 
guard  the  English  prisoners,  which  he  calls  a  degrad- 
ing service."  It  may  be  easily  supposed  that  our  hero- 
ine's curiosity  was  stimulated  by  this  piece  of  news. 
She  restrained  her  agitation,  however,  and  made  tlie 
necessary  inquiry  with   apparent   indifference.     "And 

your  son,  Madame  ?     He  is  at .'  "  —  "  He  is  at  the 

fortress  of  Bitche,"  replied  Madame  Villeneuve,  where 

VOL.  I.  12 


178  THE   PRISOK-BBEASES. 

refractory  prisoners  are  sent-     The  principal  depot  is, 
as  yon  know,  at  Verdun,  which  is  farther  from  us." 

•  S<^hy  treasured  up  the  information  thus  acquired, 
and  resolved  to  take  Bitche  by  stratagem  or  storm. 
She  continued  for  a  day  or  two  asking  what  the  law- 
yers call  "  leading  questions ; "  but  at  last  the  natural 
candor  of  her  spirit  rejected  this  system  of  policy. 
*'  I  cannot  go  on  thus,  my  kind  friends,"  said  she  ;  "  I 
cannot,  and  I  ought  not  to  go  cm  thus.  I  am  decehring 
yoo,  and  it  is  fit  that  all  be  plain  between  us.  I  am 
journeying  to  Verdun  —  to  Bitche  —  to  wherever  else 
h  b  likely  that  a  friend  of  mine  (a  young  English 
crfBcer)  is  detained.  He  is  imprisoned  ;  he  is  unhappy. 
I  will  find  him  —  I  will  traverse  all  France  but  I  will 
find  and  rescue  him,** — and  here  the  simpleton  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears.  M.  VUleneuve  lodked  some- 
what serious  at  this  piece  of  information.  He  did  not 
wish,  to  say  the  truth,  to  implicate  himself  and  his 
family  in  an  adventure  which  seemed  to  exceed  radi- 
ness  Itself.  He  had  been  an  exile  <»ce,  and  strif^ied 
of  all  his  patrim<Miy,  and  be  had  no  desire  —  with  a 
son  to  succeed  him  —  to  put  himself  and  his  estates  in 
jeopardy  a^iin.  He  was  under  something  like  a  tacit 
promise,  too,  to  a  £nend  who  had  promised  to  answer 
for  his  good  c(»duct ;  and  under  the  influence  of  all 
these  things  he  sbenuondy  dissuaded  our  heroine  from 
proceeding  farther  on  her  travels.  His  persuasions, 
however,  were  vain.  The  sole  bc^  of  many  roooflis 
\ras  not  to  be  flius  abandoned ;  and  therefore,  after 
the  delay  of  a  few  mcne  days,  which  were  occupied 
,  partly  in  obtaining  a  paa^KRt,  and  in  purchasing  a 
Tsnely  of  small  wares  and  trinkets,  (in  order  to  enable 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  179 

her  to  traverse  the  country  in  the  character  of  an  itine- 
rant trader,)  she  bade  adieu  to  her  kind  hosts,  and  set 
off,  by  the  public  conveyance,  to  Kehl. 

'  It  was  almost  dusk  when  Sophy  Ellesmere  trod, 
for  the  first  time,  upon  the  bridge  of  boats  over  which 
the  traveller  enters  Strasbourg.  Strasbourg,  famous 
for  its  snuff,  its  bells,  and  its  cathedral,  had,  however, 
but  few  charms  for  our  heroine.  SHe  accordingly, 
after  having  answered  the  challenge  of  the  sentinel, 
(who  patted  her  cheek,  and  let  down  the  wiry  muscles 
of  his  face  into  a  smile,)  and  delivered  her  passport, 
which  authorized  Sophie  Mercet  to  travel  through  vari- 
ous places,  enumerating  among  others,  Bitche  and 
Verdun,  took  up  her  abode  at  a  humble  place  of  enter- 
tainment, and  dreamed  of  success  till  morning. 

'  With  the  first  blush  of  a  September  sun  she  quitted 
Strasbourg,  bade  adieu  to  the  beautiful  Rhine,  and 
after  travelling  for  a  couple  of  days,  arrived  on  the 
second  evening  upon  the  high  land  which  overlooks 
the  fortress  and  town  of  Bitche. 

'  The  town  of  Bitche  is  situate  in  the  department  of 
the  Moselle,  about  forty  English  miles  (as  the  crow 
flies)  from  Strasbourg.  It  is  commanded  by  its  gloomy 
fortress,  a  place  famous  for  its  strength,  as  well  as 
remarkable  for  having  been  the  prison  of  many  Eng- 
lishmen who  had  endeavored  to  escape  from  the  con- 
finement of  Verdun.  This  fortress,  which  is  half 
buried  in  a  dark  looking  wood,  and  which,  with  its 
drawbridges  and  other  securities,  presents  any  thing 
but  a  pleasant  aspect,  seemed  to  the  poor  way-worn 
Sophy  the  haven  where  her  weary  voyage  was  at  last 
to  end.     She  was,  it  must  be  owned,  a  little  staggered 


180  THE    PRISON-BHEAKER. 

by  the  stern,  strong  appearance  of  the  place ;  and  it 
occurred  to  her  that  a  fortress,  which  had  opposed 
successfully  twenty  thousand  Prussian  soldiers,  would 
scarcely  yield  to  the  attack  of  a  single  maiden.  But 
she  considered,  too,  that  things  that  had  resisted  a  cowp 
de  main  had  at  last  been  undermined  by  gold,  or  had 
yielded  to  the  persevering  efforts  of  human  ingenuity. 
Above  all,  the 'desire  of  success  rose  up  and  flushed 
her  cheek,  till  bars,  and  bolts,  and  chains,  and  draw- 
bridges, and  strong  holds,  gave  way  one  after  another 
before  that  unquenchable,  irresistible  spirit  of  Hope, 
which  burns  without  dying  in  the  youthful  heart. 

'  In  this  state  of  mind  she  proceeded  till  she  found 
herself  on  the  banks  of  the  small  lake  which  lies  on 
one  side  of  the  fortress,  and  in  which  the  bastions  and 
turrets  glass  themselves,  and  seem  to  pore  over  their 
own  stern  and  imposing  aspects  with  all  the  vanity  of 
unquestioned  power.  The  lake  —  1  do  not  know  its 
name — forms,  I  believe,  the  source  of  the  little  river 
La  Blise  ;  which  falling  into  the  Sarre,  soon  after  swells 
the  current  of  the  Moselle,  and  thus  finally  mingles 
with  the  famous  rapids  of  the  Rhine.  On  this  lake 
Sophy  found  various  persons  casting  their  nets,  (fish 
forming  an  article  of  commerce  with  some  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Bitche,)  whilst  others,  chiefly  females, 
were  waiting  on  its  banks.  The  evening  was  closing, 
and  our  heroine  was  without  a  lodging.  She  scrutinized, 
therefore,  the  countenances  of  several  of  the  women 
near  her  !  and  at  last,  fixing  her  eyes  on  a  broad,  open, 
sunny-faced  dame,  who  stood  grinning  at  the  approach 
of  a  boat  which  contained  (apparently)  her  husband, 
she   mentioned   her   forlorn    situation.      "I   have    no 


THE    PEISON -BREAKER.  181 

home,"  said  she;  "I  am  wandering  —  I  know  not 
where — after  one  whom  I  love."  —  "Ciel!"  ex- 
claimed the  other  ;  "  no  home  ?  no  home  ?  You  must 
come  with  us.  You  shall  come  with  us.  You  are 
welcome.  You  shall  have  a  dish  of  perch  for  your 
supper  —  and  we  have  a  bed  too,  which  is  yours. 
Come  along,  come  along !  Here  is  our  Bernard  as 
impatient  as  ever,  although  he  has  got  his  net  full  of 
fish,"  Bernard  the  fisherman  landed,  and  after  some 
good-natured  peevish  exclamations  on  the  inattention 
of  his  wife,  he  broke  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  kissed 
both  her  cheeks,  and  confirmed  the  welcome  which  his 
wife  had  previously  given,  with  an  alacrity,  and  even 
grace,  that  would  have  done  honor  to  a  court. 

'  Our  heroine  accompanied  the  old  couple  home,  and 
found  that  their  hospitality  did  not  content  itself  with 
words.  The  best  of  their  homely  fare  was  offered  — 
was  pressed  upon  her.  She  was  invited  to  stay  a 
week  —  a  month  —  a  year  ;  why  need  she  ever  leave 
them  .?  There  was  enough  for  all.  They  had  no 
children,  and  needle-work  found  many  purchasers  fn 
the  neighborhood  of  the  town  of  Bitche.  Sophy  lis- 
tened to  all  they  said  with  a  patient  smile,  but  her 
heart  wandered  away  after  the  imprisoned  soldier 
whom  she  had  travelled  so  many  leagues  to  enfranchise. 
It  was  her  cue,  however,  to  stay  at  present  at  the  home 
of  the  fisherman  ;  and  she  did  not  think  it  right  indeed 
to  give  an  ungracious  and  sudden  refusal  to  the  proffers 
of  the  good-natured  couple.  She  would  stay  a  short 
time  with  them.  She  would  consider.  She  could  not 
remain  at  Bitche  for  ever  —  but  she  would  rest  her 
unquiet  spirit  a  little,  and  would  wait  for  a  smile  from 


182  THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 

Providence.  And  accordingly  she  remained  with  them 
during  several  days,  ripening  into  favor  with  both,  and 
obtaining,  from  time  to  time,  amidst  the  desultory  con- 
versations which  occurred  between  Bernard  and  his 
neighbors,  some  little  insight  into  the  rules  and  secrets 
of  the  fortress.  Neither  did  she  neglect  other  means 
of  obtaining  information.  She  would  take  her  little 
basket  of  wares,  and  go  her  rounds  amongst  the  trades- 
men and  cottagers  of  the  town,  and  sometimes 
ventured  into  the  cabarets  and  other  places  where  the 
soldiers  were  allowed  to  resort,  when  not  upon  actual 
duty. 

'  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  she  came 
suddenly  on  a  group  of  French  soldiers,  who  stood 
chattering  together  at  the  door  of  a  small  inn,  about 
half  musket-shot  distance  from  the  fortress.  One  of 
these  heroes  had  just  completed  his  harangue  as  our 
little  Quixote  arrived.  He  was  a  good-humored  look- 
ing fellow,  and  bore  marks  of  service  upon  him.  A 
gash  across  the  nose,  a  medal,  and  the  ornaments  of  a 
ifon-commissioned  officer,  showed  that  he  had  made 
one  sturdy  step  up  the  hill  of  fortune.  "  Well,  well, 
Monsieur  from  Picardy,"  replied  one  of  his  compan- 
ions, "  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see.  It  is  your  turn  to 
mount  guard  to-night."  Sophy  listened  to  these  words 
attentively.  Madame  de  Mercet  was  a  native  of  Pic- 
ardy, and  she  had  taught  her  one  or  two  of  her  native 
airs.  Her  presence  of  mind  instantly  suggested  that 
these  might  be  of  use.  She  began  and  threw  all  her 
powers  into  a  song  and  succeeded.  Our  Picardian 
was  captivated  in  a  moment.  He  stood  by  her  as  she 
sang,  and  tapped  his  fingers  on  his  arm  in  accordance 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  183 

with  the  tune.  Tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  (for  a  French- 
man is  soon  moved  by  these  little  national  reminis- 
cences,) and  our  heroine  might  have  risen  speedily 
into  his  confidence  and  favor. 

'  But  it  was  desirable  to  preserve  her  trading  charac- 
ter, and  she  accordingly  repressed  her  curiosity  till  a 
better  moment  should  arrive.  She  turned  to  his  com- 
panions, and  accosted  them.  "  Messieurs,"  said  she, 
curtseying,  "  will  you  not  lay  out  a  trifle  with  a  poor 
girl  ?  Gentlemen  soldiers,"  continued  she,  "  will  not 
you  give  me  a  sous  piece  for  charity  ?  " 

'  "  Bah !  "  said  one,  "  we  have  enough  to  do  with 
our  money.  Give,  too  !  Sucre  !  What  are  eight  sous 
a  day  to  give  with  ?  "  He  smoked  on  with  a  frowa 
that  was  rigidly  philosophical. 

*  "  Come  hither,"  said  the  Corporal,  whose  name 
was  Jouvet.  "  Come  hither,  my  little  girl,  and  tell  me 
what  you  want,  and  where  you  are  going  ?  " 

'  "  I  am  going  to  see  my —  my  lover,  Sir,"  was  the 
reply. 

'  "  Ho,  ho,  ho  ! "  This  was  too  much  for  the  gravity 
of  the  republican  heroes ;  even  the  smoker  could  not 
contain  a  smile ;  but  the  Picardian  viewed  her  with 
increased  interest. 

'  "  Soh  ! "  said  he,  "  and  where  is  your  lover, 
Marie  ?     Is  not  your  name  Marie,  my  child .''  " 

*  "  I  am  called  Sophie,  Sir,"  said  our  heroine,  "and 
I  am  going  to  Verdun,  and  afterwards  to  Tours.  My 
friend  is  a  soldier,  —  poor  fellow  !  " 

'  "  Poor  fellow !  "  said  the  smoker,  turning  round. 
*'  Do  you  call  a  man  poor  fellow  who  fights  under  the 
First  Consul  ?     You  are  a  fool." 


184  THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 

'  "  A  fond  one,  at  all  events,"  replied  he  of  Picardy, 
"  and  that  is  enough  for  me.  Come  along,  my  Demoi- 
selle ;  I  must  call  at  the  house  of  Bernard  the  fisher- 
man ;  walk  by  me,  I  am  old  enough  to  save  you  from 
scandal.  Let  us  walk  together  to  Bernard's,  and  you 
shall  tell  me  your  story  by  the  way." 

*  But  let  us  hasten  with  our  tale,  or  we  shall  become 
(if  we  have  not  already  become)  tedious.  Our  heroine 
used  her  time  effectually  in  opening  a  correspondence 
with  Dacre,  who  she  discovered  was  in  the  prisons  of 
Bitche,  and  in  planning,  in  concert  with  him,  his  es- 
cape. She  made  acquaintance  with  the  soldiers,  many 
of  whom  bought  of  her  some  trifle  as  tokens  of  their 
good-will,  some  purchasing  cigars,  others  little  buckles, 
and  pins,  and  ornaments,  or  casts  and  prints  of  the 
First  Consul  and  his  coadjutors,  besides  various  other 
matters  wherein  she  dealt.  Some  of  these  men  ad- 
mired her  face,  and  some  her  songs,  and  all  her  cheer- 
ful willing  nature.  Many,  as  I  have  said,  laid  out 
money  with  her;  but  I  must  except  one  hero,  M. 
Blaise,  who,  as  it  chanced,  was  a  Picardian,  like  our 
friend  Jouvet,  but  otherwise  was  his  opposite  in  all 
things,  saving  only  in  his  love  of  songs.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  how  many  times  our  little  patient  girl  sang, 
for  this  rogue's  pleasure,  various  airs  of  Picardy.  She 
sang,  and  was  encored,  and  sang  again,  till  the  mus- 
keteer was  moved  into  mighty  commendations ;  but 
still  he  would  not  part  with  his  coin.  One  night,  how- 
ever, his  desire  for  pleasure  overcame  this  engrossing 
love  for  money. 

'  "  If  you  will  bring  me  a  skin  of  wine  to  the  north 
rampart  to-night,"  said  he,  ("  I  shall  be  on  guard  there, 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  185 

and  will  fasten  it  to  a  cord,  which  I  will  throw  across 
the  moat,)  I  will  lay  out  a  double  franc  piece  with  you, 
Mademoiselle.  Come  !  you  shall  bring  it,  and  sing  me 
a  Picardy  air." 

'  Sophy,  who  was  by  this  time  prepared  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  any  occasion,  however  sudden,  of  forward- 
ing her  lover's  escape,  gradually  assented. 

*  "  But  your  Governor  will  not  allow  wine  at  night .'"' 
said  she  inquiringly. 

*  "  NHmporte,^^  returned  the  valiant  Blaise,  "  we  will 
drink  his  health,  notwithstanding." 

*  No  more  objections  were  made  by  our  heroine,  who 
immediately  proceeded  to  the  house  of  a  woman  who 
did  work  for  the  fortress,  and  through  whom  she  con- 
trived to  apprise  Dacre  that  the  time  had  arrived  "for 
attempting  his  liberation.  To  purchase  a  skin  of  wine, 
and  dissolve  in  it  some  opium  which  she  had  stored  up 
from  time  to  time,  was  all  the  preparation  that  Sophy 
required.  Ropes  and  such  things  had  been  previously 
purchased,  and  the  route  of  escape  arranged. 

*  It  was  hard  upon  midnight  when  our  heroine,  trem- 
bling for  the  first  time  from  head  to  foot,  arrived  at  the 
side  of  the  moat,  where  it  circles  the  northern  rampart. 
The  skies  were  almost  obscured  by  vast  masses  of 
cloud,  and  the  wailing  winds,  as  they  came  over  the 
gloomy  forest,  dashed  occasionally  a  few  drops  of  rain 
in  her  face.  It  was  a  night  fit  for  such  an  adventure, 
and  Blaise  was  there  ready  (though  he  knew  it  not)  to 
forward  it  The  signal  agreed  on  was  a  Picardy  song; 
for  the  soldier's  love  of  music  more  than  rivalled  his 
love  of  wine. 

*  "  You  shall  sing  '  O  Picardie  ! '  said  Blaise,  when 


186  THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 

they  were  agreeing  upon  a  signal,  "  and  nobody  will 
dream  about  wine." 

'  It  was  no  easy  matter,  however,  to  sing  under  the 
circumstances  which  agitated  her ;  indeed  it  was  not 
easy  (although  she  had  previously  reconnoitered  the 
road)  to  find  the  way  through  the  darkness  to  the  pre- 
cise spot  where  Blaise  had  asserted  that  he  should  be 
waiting.  Sophy,  however,  proceeded  on  her  course 
until  she  heard  some  of  the  little  runnels  of  water, 
which  the  rains  had  increased,  gurgling  and  babbling 
along,  and  at  last  falling  into  the  moat.  A  sudden 
survey  of  the  fortress,  its  walls,  and  windings,  and 
projections,  became  necessary.  This  was  speedily 
made,  and  the  north  rampart  decried  without  much 
difficulty.  Near  this  point,  it  so  happened,  that  Dacre's 
prison  was  situate,  and  it  was  from  that  rampart  that 
he  and  a  companion  (for  one  was  necessary  to  the 
other's  escape)  should  let  themselves  down  into  the 
water,  in  order  to  their  liberation.  The  signal,  there- 
fore, that  was  to  awaken  the  attention  of  Blaise  was 
sufficient  for  the  prisoners  also ;  and  it  was  resolved, 
that,  during  the  period  that  the  heroic  Blaise  was  occu- 
pied with  song  and  wine,  the  two  prisoners  should 
become  free  men. 

'  Sophy  commenced  her  song  in  the  lowest  breath 
that  terror  could  produce,  "  Who  goes  ?  "  said  a  deep 
harsh  tongue.  She  recognised  the  tone  of  a  soldier 
whom  she  knew,  but  gave  no  reply,  and  passed  on  with 
almost  noiseless  steps.  She  was  now  near  the  point 
that  Blaise  had  specified,  and  she  sang  once  more  in  a 
bolder  key.  "  Ah,  ha  !  Picardie,  are  you  there  ?  "  asked 
the  voice  of  Blaise.     *'  Who  calls  t  "  said  Sophy  ;  but 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  187 

she  received  no  answer,  for  at  that  moment  the  tramp 
of  feet  was  heard  above,  and  the  answer,  "  All's  well !  " 
resounded  through  the  silence.  Blaise  himself  had 
apparently  departed  at  the  first  sound  of  footsteps,  but 
soon  returning,  he  gave  orders  to  the  sentinels  in  a 
loud  voice,  as  though  to  assure  Sophy  that  no  discovery 
had  occurred.  He  placed  all  the  sentinels  at  their 
posts  excepting  one,  whose  post  he  volunteered  to  take  ; 
an  offer  that  was  willingly  accepted.  In  a  minute  there 
was  no  one  within  hearing  except  Sophy  and  the 
soldier  Blaise — save  that  within  the  walls  of  the 
prison,  Dacre,  and  his  companion  Carlton,  were  listen- 
ing for  a  repetition  of  the  signal  song.  This  was 
speedily  given,  and  they  then  commenced  their  labors. 

'  "  Before  we  sing  we  must  drink,"  said  Blaise,  and 
threw  over  the  wall  a  cord,  to  which  he  had  fastened  a 
tolerably  heavy  stone.  He  threw  scarcely  far  enough, 
and  the  stone  rolled  back  into  the  moat.  A  sec- 
ond cast,  however,  and  the  exclamation,  "  Sacre  ! " 
made  all  right.  Sophy  tied  the  skin  of  wine  to  the 
cord,  and  began  singing  like  a  thrush.  At  this  moment 
proceedings  of  a  similar  nature  were  going  on  at  a  little 
distance,  and  the  fall  of  some  rope,  or  hook,  into  the 
water,  awakened  the  attention  of  Blaise.  "  What  was 
that  ?"  said  he,  "  I  heard  something  drop  into  the  moat. 
Wait  here,  and  I  will  go  my  round  and  return." 

'"Stop!"  replied  our  heroine,  "  you  are  easily 
frightened  for  a  soldier.  It  was  I  —  I  was  too  careless ; 
I  threw  the  stone  that  was  fastened  to  your  cord  into 
the  water,  and  Monsieur  Blaise,  who  has  faced  the 
Austrians,  was  alarmed." 

'  This  answer  appeared  satisfactory,  for  Blaise  in  a 


188  THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 

trice  inserted  a  tube  into  the  top  of  the  skin,  and  took  a 
formidable  draught  of  liquor.  "  That  is  a  brave  skin 
of  wine,"  said  he ;  "I  have  paid  ten  francs  for  no 
better,  and  yet  you  charge  me  but  two.  You  are  a  good 
girl,  and  shall  sing  me  a  song  as  a  reward."  Sophy 
thought  for  an  instant  —  (how  much  we  may  recollect 
in  an  instant  of  time  !) —  of  her  own  perilous  situation  — 
of  her  hopes  —  of  her  own  native  place  —  how  desolate 
indeed  —  but  she  recollected  it  as  it  was  when  the  poor 
Marie  de  Mercet  was  living,  and  she  poured  forth  in 
sweet  low  tones  her  little  Picardian  song.  There  is  not 
much  in  the  words ;  but  the  air  is  simple  and  beautiful. 

*'  0  Picardie !     O  Picardie  ! 
No  home  for  me  like  Picardie  ! 

The  sun  may  rise 

In  other  skies, 
But  nought  like  the  sun  of  Picardie. 

"  The  grape  is  bred  in  Picardie, 
And  the  apple  is  red  as  e'er  you'll  see, 
And  the  yellow  corn 
"Where  I  was  born. 
Is  the  richest  in  all  dear  Picardie  ! 

"  And  the  girls  dance  light  in  Picardie ! 
And  their  eyes  are  bright  where  I  would  be, 

And  the  men  are  fleet. 

And  the  songs  are  sweet,  — 
O,  sweet,  sweeet  songs  of  Picardie  ! 

"  But  what  is  all  else  in  Picardie, 
Dear  home  of  mine,  compared  with  thee  ? 
When  the  wars  are  o'er 
I  '11  march  no  more, 
But  live  and  die  in  Picardie  ! " 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  189 

'  The  song  was  repeated  at  the  urgent  request  of  the 
sentinel ;  but,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  encore,  the 
quick  ear  of  Sophy  heard  a  gentle  splash  occasioned 
by  the  immersion  of  some  body  in  water,  and  she 
hastened,  after  a  few  more  words,  to  quit  her  military 
acquaintance. 

*  "  The  rain  is  coming  on,"  said  she,  "  and  I  must  bid 
you  good  night." 

*  "  Good  night,  my  little  Demoiselle,"  returned  Blaise 
in  a  dull  tone,  which  announced  that  during  the  singing 
he  had  employed  himself  in  copious  and  effectual 
libations ;  "  Good  night,  —  you  will  come  and  sing  me 
Picardie  again —  eh  ?  " 

'  "  Never  fear,"  answered  Sophy,  and  left  him  to 
certain  slumber. 

*  She  found  that  Dacre  had  arrived  safely  on  the 
other  side  of  the  moat,  but  that  his  companion  was  still 
within  the  limits  of  the  prison.  The  rope  had  somehow 
become  entangled,  and  he  just  reached  the  ground  with 
great  diihculty.  There  was  still  another  impediment, 
and  the  moat  also  to  ford. 

'  "  Come,"  said  Dacre,  when  he  saw  her,  "  let  us  be 
off.  I  should  not  have  waited  here  a  second,  but  that  I 
could  not  find  the  way  without  you." 

'"But  your  friend?"  inquired  Sophy;  "where  is 
Mr.  Carlton  ? " 

'  "  Oh,  by  Jupiter  !  I  can't  wait  for  him;  he  must 
take  his  chance,"  was  the  reply. 

'  "  He  has  risked  his  life  to  aid  your  escape ;  and  if 
you  leave  him,  you  leave  him  to  certain  punishment — 
perhaps  to  death."  This  was  the  language  of  her  ap- 
prehensions. 


190  THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 

'"Tush!"  said  Dacre  hastily;  "  in  these  cases  we 
must  not  be  too  nice.  Let  us  be  gone.  Every  minute 
is  worth  a  thousand  pounds  to  me,  and  I  must  proceed 
accordingly.     Allans!'''' 

'  But  Sophy  still  continued  to  look  at  the  place 
whence  she  expected  Carlton  to  come,  and  did  not 
move,  notwithstanding  the  urgent  entreaties  of  her 
lover.  He  was  violent  and  impatient,  but  she  re- 
mained firm  to  her  principle.  "  Stay,  Sir,  stay  ! " 
said  she ;  "  this  is  not  the  way  to  do  our  duty.  Your 
friend  must  be  saved.  Ah!  see  —  he  comes — the 
wall  is  scaled  —  he  is  in  the  moat — hush!  gently  — 
he  is  over  —  is  safe  !  Now  then,  take  up  the  port- 
manteau, and  let  us  begone,  as  you  say." 

'  They  took  their  way  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
straight  in  the  direction  of  Huinegen.  At  this  point 
they  retired  and  clad  themselves  in  dry  habits,  leaving 
their  wet  clothes  and  some  fragments  of  rope  (as, 
indeed,  they  had  once  or  twice  previously  done)  to 
mislead  pursuit.  They  then  turned  short  round  a  path 
pointed  out  by  Sophy,  and  took  a  westward  course 
towards  the  forest.  "Observe,"  said  she  to  them, 
"  you  will  skirt  the  left  bank  of  the  lake ;  then,  take 
the  green  path  into  the  forest  —  keep  on  straight  for 
nearly  half  a  mile,  and  at  the  cross-roads,  where  the 
great  chestnut-tree  stands  in  the  middle,  wait  for  me 
amongst  the  bushes  by  the  road-side.  I  will  call  out 
'  Venez,'  and  you  will  then  know  that  it  is  I."  At  this 
moment  the  roll  of  a  drum,  and  a  musket-shot  from 
the  fortress,  announced  that  their  flight  had  been  dis- 
covered. "Come  along,  Carlton,"  said  Dacre;  "those 
ropes  which   you  left  hanging  on  the  window   have 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  191 

betrayed  us."  "  Farewell !  "  said  Carlton,  approach- 
ing our  heroine  and  taking  her  hand,  "  if  we  meet  no 
more,  God  bless  you,  and  farewell!"  "We  shall 
meet,"  replied  she  ;  "I  shall  be  with  you  shortly;  but 
now,  speed,  and  away!"_  There  was  no  need  for 
entreaty ;  for  while  Sophy  was  weighing  the  careless 
words  of  Dacre,  and  the  solemn  farewell  of  his 
friend,  the  quick  walk  (almost  the  run)  of  a  small 
body  of  men  struck  on  their  ears,  and  they  turned 
rapidly  on  their  course  towards  the  forest.  Sophy 
herself  went  home  to  the  fisherman's  cottage,  for  some 
provision  which  she  had  been  unable  before  to  bring, 
and  also  to  answer  any  visit  that  the  soldiers  might 
make  there.  "  I  shall  be  with  you  in  half  an  hour,  or 
an  hour,"  said  she ;  and  the  prisoners  and  their  libera- 
dor  parted. 

'  Harry  Dacre  and  his  companion  reached,  without 
much  diflSculty,  the  cross-roads  in  the  forest  of  Bitche, 
and  there,  concealing  themselves  amongst  the  fern  and 
brambles  that  skirted  the  green  pathway,  they  awaited 
the  coming  of  their  preserver.  All  was  solitary  and 
still  on  their  arrival,  except  that  now  and  then  the 
winds  broke  upon  the  forest  in  huge  gusts,  and  made 
the  cones  of  the  pine-trees  rattle,  while  overhead  in 
the  sky  large  masses  of  cloud  began  to  assemble, 
threatening  rain.  Occasionally,  the  fall  of  a  leaf  dis- 
turbed them ;  or  the  willows  or  sycamores,  sighing 
with  all  their  boughs,  appeared  to  lament  their  desti- 
nies forlorn.  Dacre  gave  way  to  despair,  and  cursed 
the  unkindnesses  of  fortune  ;  while  Carlton,  of  a  more 
steady  temperament,  collected  all  the  energies  of  his 
soul,  and  awaited  the  result  with  a  brave  patience.     In 


192  THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 

this  state  they  remained  at  least  half  an  hour,  when 
suddenly  Carlton  exclaimed,  in  a  quick  whisper, 
"  Hark !  I  hear  footsteps."  "  She  is  come  at  last, 
then,"  said  Dacre,  rising;  "I  never  before  so  much 
wished  to  see  her."  He  was  about  to  walk  onwards 
to  meet  her,  when  his  companion  pulled  him  down. 
"  Stop  !  "  said  he,  "  drop  down  amongst  the  bushes,  or 
you  will  be  lost:  'tis  the  tramp  of  a  horse;"  and  he 
pulled  him  down  without  ceremony,  till  the  danger,  if 
such  it  were,  had  passed.  Once  or  twice,  after  this 
first  alarm,  the  two  freed  men  were  compelled  again 
to  hide,  till  at  last,  after  an  hour  of  terrible  anxiety 
and  some  peril,  a  light  quick  footstep  was  heard  com- 
ing along  the  path  from  Bitche.  The  person  was 
hurrying,  and  almost  running  onwards,  and  her  short 
and  loudly-drawn  breath  showed  that  she  was  almost 
spent  with  fatigue.  "  It  is  our  little  friend,  at  last," 
said  Carlton ;  and  our  heroine  stood  before  them. 

*  "  I  have  had  great  difficulties,"  said  she,  after  a 
moment's  pause  for  breath.  "  I  am  suspected,  not- 
withstanding all  my  pains  ;  and  I  fear  that  I  too  must 
fly.  At  all  events,  however,  I  have  brought  you  some- 
thing necessary  to  your  expedition."  Saying  which, 
she  took  from  her  shoulders  a  bag  containing  some 
small  loaves  of  bread  and  cold  meat,  the  amount  of 
the  good  dame  Bernard's  larder.  Dacre  seized  the 
provision.  "  We  will  divide  the  labor  between  us," 
said  he  to  Carlton  ;  "  I  will  carry  this  for  the  first  hour, 
and  then  I  will  shift  it  upon  you.  Sophy,  my  girl, 
good  by  t'ye  :  you're  a  devilish  clever  lass,  and  have 
managed  the  matter  famously.  One  kiss,  and  then 
tell  us  which  way  our  route  lies  out  of  the  forest,  and 


THE    PRISON-BREAKER.  193 

we  will  begone."  He  was  proceeding  to  take  his 
farewell  in  the  fashion  he  mentioned,  when  Sophy 
once  more  spoke  :  it  was  with  great  hesitation  and 
evident  pain.  "  I  told  you,  if  you  remember,  that  I 
must  leave  this  place.  I  am  suspected,  and  my  life  is 
threatened.  I  am  very  unwilling  to  encumber  your 
flight,  but  — "  "  But,  what  ?  "  inquired  Dacre  impa- 
tiently. "  Why  —  I  thought  —  that  you  would  not 
refuse,  perhaps,  to  take  me  with  you."  "  Impossible ! " 
said  Dacre,  "  we  should  be  retaken  in  a  couple  of 
hours.  I  know  you  would  not  wish  us  to  be  impris- 
oned again.  It  is  quite  out  of  the  question,  believe 
me."  But  Carlton  could  not  brook  this  selfishness  of 
his  associate.  "  Dacre,"  said  he,  "  she  must  go  with 
us.  What !  after  having  saved  us  both,  shall  we  do 
nothing  for  her 7'^  "I  tell  you  she  cannot  go,"  re- 
plied Harry.  "Sophy,  my  dear,"  continued  he,  "  you 
must  see  that  the  thing  is  impossible.  Depend  on't, 
the  rascals  wont  harm  you:  'tis  only  xis  —  'tis  men, 
child,  that  they  put  in  prison.  Come,  come,  all  will 
be  safe.  Go  back  to  your  old  fisherman  and  his  wife, 
and  all  will  turn  out  well,  I  engage.  Come  along, 
Carlton,  we  haven't  a  moment  to  lose."  Sophy  stood 
in  bitter  wonder  at  the  hard  levity  and  detestable 
ingratitude  of  her  lover.  Even  love,  if  love  can  so 
soon  perish,  seemed  growing  cold  in  her  own  bosom, 
and  receding.  All  that  she  had  done  and  suffered  for 
him  shot  in  a  single  instant  through  her  brain,  and 
flashed  despair  upon  her.  "  Will  you  not  save  me, 
then  ?  "  said  she,  timidly  and  slowly ;  "I  —  I  saved 
yoM."  Dacre  turned  on  his  heel,  but  his  more  mag- 
nanimous companion  took  her  hand  tenderly,  and  with 

VOL.   I.  13 


194  THE    PRISON-BREAKEK. 

respect.  "  You  have  saved  us  both,"  said  he,  "  and 
may  God  desert  me  if  I  leave  you  till  you  are  safe. 
Mr.  Dacre,"  he  continued,  "you  may  go  —  you  may 
do  as  you  like ;  but  I  and  Miss  Ellesmere  go  together. 
If  you  choose  to  leave  us  —  why  be  it ;  but  remember, 
Sir,  that  the  first  person  who  attempts  to  betray  her,  or 
impede  her  flight,  shall  have  a  bullet  through  his  brain 
—  and  so  let  us  understand  each  other  clearly." 

'  By  this  time  the  rain,  which  had  begun  to  fall 
gently,  came  down  in  formidable  showers.  They  set 
off,  however,  Carlton  and  his  friend,  followed  by  the 
glooming  Dacre.  The  plashy  and  slippery  ground 
rendered  their  course  difficult  even  at  first,  and  finally 
it  became  desperately  fatiguing.  The  two  men,  al- 
though accustomed  to  rougher  exercise  than  their 
companion,  did  not,  however,  stand  up  better  against 
the  troubles  of  their  progress  than  the  little  light-footed, 
brave-hearted  girl,  who  had  come  so  many  miles  to 
their  rescue.  She  walked  on  stoutly,  and  with  almost 
a  merry  heart.  Even  the  men  caught  a  tone  from  her 
courage,  and  seemed  rising  into  hope  and  exhilaration, 
when  the  short  sharp  whistle  of  a  bullet  amongst  the 
trees  near  them  turned  their  attention  to  their  own 
safety.  They  stopped,  but  had  not  remained  a  minute 
stationary,  when  the  sound  of  heavy  feet  treading 
amongst  the  brambles  and  leaves  told  them  that  some 
one  was  close  upon  them.  In  an  instant  a  figure  stood 
before  them  on  the  path.  Their  eyes  had  grown  so 
accustomed  to  the  dim  light  about  them,  that  they 
could  see  it  was  an  armed  man  who  opposed  their 
progress.  "  Qui  vive  7  "  exclaimed  a  stern  voice, 
while  at  the  same  time  the  cocking  of  a  pistol  an- 


THE   PRISON-BREAKER.  195 

nounced  a  formidable  foe.  Carlton,  who  was  a  good 
linguist,  began  a  statement  ;of  their  having  lost  their 
way,  when  the  soldier  (for  such  the  new  comer  was) 
bade  him  be  silent  in  an  imperious  tone,  and  lifting 
something  that  looked  like  a  bugle  to  his  lips,  was 
about  to  call  in  a  reinforcement.  Not  a  moment  was 
to  be  lost,  and  not  a  moment  was  lost.  The  intrepid 
Carlton  plunged  directly  upon  him.  So  sudden  was 
the  onset,  that  the  pistol  was  dashed  from  his  hands, 
and  the  horn  or  bugle  instantly  displaced  from  his 
mouth.  Neither  spoke,  but  a  short  struggle  was  heard, 
like  that  of  two  animals  fighting  for  life  amongst  the 
crackling  leaves.  Once  or  twice  a  blow  resounded 
amidst  the  panting  and  short-breathing  of  the  com- 
batants, whose  strife  was  made  doubly  terrible  by  the 
darkness  about  them.  It  was  evident  that  the  death  of 
one  or  the  other  must  conclude  the  affray.  Dacre  and 
the  now  agitated  Sophy  awaited  the  event  in  frightful 
anxiety,  when  suddenly  a  short  cry,  a  curse,  and  a 
rattling  of  the  voice  in  the  throat,  announced  that  the 
victory  was  won  —  and  lost  !  A  slight  blow  ensued, 
and  was  itself  followed  by  a  sound  like  the  bubbling 
of  blood  or  water.  At  last  one  of  the  men  rose  up, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  and  staggering  to  a  tree,  exclaimed, 
in  English,  "He  is  dead  !  I  could  not  help  it.  It 
was  necessary  that  one  should  fall  —  or  three.  He  is 
dead.  Let  us  leave  this  place  at  once  —  silently  — 
and  quickly  —  quickly  !  "  His  companions  made  no 
reply,  but  followed  him  quickly  and  silently  through 
the  melancholy  forest  darkness.' 

Our   sexagenarian  could   get  no   farther  with  his 


196  THE    PRISON-BREAKER. 

story  :  he  would,  indeed,  have  gone  on  telling  every 
minute  and  tedious  particular  of  the  escape,  (for  the 
three  people  of  his  story  did  escape,)  but  that  the 
time  limited  for  the  evening's  labor  was  exhausted, 
and  the  old  gentleman  was  obliged  to  pause. 

*  It  is  too  bad  to  leave  off  before  the  story  is  con- 
cluded,' said  I,  (desirous  of  paying  the  old  gentleman 
a  compliment) ;  *  come  !  we  have  still  ten  minutes  left 
before  supper.  Mr.  ■  shall  tell  us  the  remainder 
of  his  tale  in  half  a  dozen  sentences,  and  then  we 
shall  go  to  rest  contentedly.     Did  your  party  escape, 

Mr.  ?  or  were  they  sent  back  to  the  prisons  of 

Bitche  ? ' 

'  They  escaped,'  replied  Mr.  ,  '  and  are  safe 

enough,  I'  faith  !  and  two  of  them  are  merry  enough, 
also.' 

'  I  am  sorry  for  that,'  retorted  I ;  '  I  like  that  there 
should  be  poetical  justice  in  all  stories,  and  your  lover 
deserved  rather  to  be  hanged  than  married.' 

'  He  is  not  married,'  was  the  answer,  '  and  he  may 
be  hanged.  Far  more  improbable  things  have  occurred 
in  the  history  of  the  world,' 

'  But  what  became  of  your  heroine  ?  She  is  really 
a  heroine ;  for  she  had  a  man's  courage  in  her  woman's 
heart.' 

*  Oh ! '  said  Mr.  .  *  Why,  Sir,  it  was  impos- 
sible, you  sec,  that  she  should  link  herself  to  such  a 
lump  of  selfishness  as  the  scoundrel  to  whom  she  gave 
her  girl's  heart  away.  Her  travels  had  improved  her 
reason  ;  so  she  turned  off  the  worthless  lover,  (if  I  may 
profane  that  pretty  word.  Sir,)  and  took  an  excellent 


THE   PEISON-BREAKER.  197 

fellow  to  her  arms,  and  is  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long. 
I  do  not  know  a  more  beautiful  sight,  indeed,  than  to 
look  at  my  friend  Mrs.  —  Carlton,  with  all  her  children 
about  her ' 


1829. 


THE    PLANTER. 


Fifty  —  sixty  —  seventy  (any  given  number  of) 
years  ago,  the  West  Indies  were  not  as  they  are  now, 
in  these  days  of  purity.  The  colonists  were  not  then 
meek,  modest,  humane,  temperate,  independent  people, 
and  lovers  of  liberty.  On  the  contrary,  they  were  at 
that  time  boastful,  and  luxurious  ;  loved  scheidam  and 
pine-apple  rum ;  worshipped  their  superiors  in  station, 
and  despised  everybody  below  themselves.  Thus  the 
newly  imported  Englishmen  held  the  regular  colonists 
in  utter  contempt ;  the  colonists  (a  white  race)  requited 
themselves,  by  contemning  the  mustees  and  quadroons ; 
these  last,  on  their  parts,  heartily  despised  the  half 
castes;  who,  in  turn,  transmitted  the  scorn  on  to  the 
heads  of  the  downright  blacks.  Whom  the  blacks 
despised,  I  never  could  learn,  but  probably  all  the  rest : 
and,  in  fact,  they  seem  to  have  had  ample  cause  for 
so  doing,  unless  the  base,  beggarly,  and  cruel  vanity 
imputed  to  their  '  superiors,'  be  at  once  a  libel  and  a 
fable. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  in  the  Colony  of 
Demerara  in  the  year  17 — ,  when  a  young  English- 
man went  there,  in  order  to  inspect  his  newly  acquired 


THE    PLANTER.  199 

property.     His  name  was  John  Vivian.     He  came  of 

a  good  family  in  D shire  ;  possessed  (without  being 

at  all  handsome)  a  dark,  keen,  intelligent  countenance; 
and  derived  from  his  maternal  uncle  large  estates  in 
Demerara,  and  from  his  father  a  small  farm  in  his 
own  county,  a  strong  constitution,  and  a  resolute, 
invincible  spirit.  Perhaps,  he  had  too  much  obstinacy 
of  character;  perhaps,  also,  an  intrepidity  of  manner, 
and  carelessness  of  established  forms,  which  would 
have  been  unsuitable  to  society  as  now  constituted. 
All  this  we  will  not  presume  to  determine.  We  do 
not  wish  to  extenuate  his  faults,  of  which  he  had  as 
handsome  a  share  as  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  young 
gentlemen  who  are  under  no  control ;  although  not 
precisely  of  the  same  character.  In  requital  for  these 
defects,  however,  he  was  a  man  of  firm  mind,  of  a 
generous  spirit,  and  would  face  danger,  and  stand  up 
against  oppression,  as  readily  on  behalf  of  others  as  of 
himself;  and,  at  the  bottom  of  all,  though  it  had  lain 
hid  from  his  birth,  (like  some  of  those  antediluvian 
fossils  which  perplex  our  geologists  and  antiquaries,)  he 
had  a  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  feeling,  which  must 
not  be  passed  by,  without,  at  least,  our  humble  com- 
mendation. 

Exactly  eight  weeks  from  the  day  of  his  stepping  on 
board  the  good  ship  '  Wager,'  at  Bristol,  Vivian  found 
himself  standing  on  the  shore  of  the  river  Demerara, 
and  in  front  of  its  capital,  Stabroek.  In  that  interval, 
he  had  been  tossed  on  the  wild  waters  of  the  Atlantic ; 
had  passed  from  woollens  to  nankeens,  from  English 
cold  to  tropic  heat ;  and  he  now  stood  eyeing  the  curi- 
ous groups  of  the  colony,  where  creatures  of  every 


200  THE    PLANTER. 

shade,   from    absolute  sable  to  pallid  white,  might  be 
seen,  for  the  trouble  only  of  a  journey. 

But  we  have  a  letter  of  our  hero  on  this  subject, 
written  to  a  friend  in  England,  on  his  landing,  which 
we  will  unfold  for  the  reader's  benefit.  Considering 
that  the  writer  had  the  range  of  foolscap  before  him, 
and  was  transmitting  news  from  the  torrid  to  the  tem- 
perate zone,  it  may  at  least  lay  claim  to  the  virtue  of 
brevity.     Thus  it  runs  :  — 

*  To  Richard  Clinton,  Esq.,  &c.,  &c.,  Middle  Tem- 
ple, London,  England. 

'  Well,  Dick  !  —  Here  am  I,  thy  friend,  John  Vivian, 
safely  arrived  at  the  country  of  cotton  and  tobacco. 
Six  months  ago,  I  would  have  ventured  a  grosschen 
that  nothing  on  this  base  earth  could  have  tempted  me 
to  leave  foggy  England  ;  but  the  unkennelling  a  knave 
was  a  temptation  not  to  be  resisted,  and  accordingly  I 
am  here,  as  you  see. 

*  Since  I  shook  your  hand  at  Bristol,  I  have  seen 
somewhat  of  the  world.  The  Cove  of  Cork,  —  the 
Madeiras, — the  Peak  of  Teneriffe,  —  the  flying  fish, — 
the  nautilus,  —  the  golden-finned  Dorado,  —  the  deep 
blue  seas,  —  and  the  tropic  skies,  —  are  matters  which 
some  would  explain  to  you  in  a  chapter.  But  I  have 
not  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer ;  so  you  must  be  content 
with  a  simple  enumeration. 

'  My  voyage  was,  like  all  voyages,  detestable.  I 
began  with  sea-sickness  and  piercing  winds ;  I  ended 
with  headache  and  languor,  and  weather  to  which  your 
English  dog-days  are  a  jest.  The  burning,  blazing 
heat  was  so  terrific,  that  I  had  well  nigh  oozed  away 


THE    PLANTER.  201 

into  a  sea-god.  Nothing  but  the  valiant  army  of 
bottles  which  your  care  provided  could  have  saved  me. 
My  mouth  was  wide  open,  like  the  seams  of  our  vessel ; 
but,  unlike  them,  it  would  not  be  content  with  water. 
I  poured  in  draught  after  draught  of  the  brave  liquor. 
I  drank  deep  healths  to  you  and  other  friends  ;  till,  at 
last,  the  Devil,  who  broils  Europeans  in  these  parts,  took 
to  his  wings  and  fled.  Thus  it  was,  Clinton,  that  I  ar- 
rived finally  at  Demerara. 

*  But  now  comes  your  question  of  "  What  sort  of  a 
place  is  this  same  Demerara?  "  P faith,  Dick,  'tis  flat 
and  stupid  enough.  The  run  up  the  river  is,  indeed, 
pretty ;  and  there  are  trees  enough  to  satisfy  even  your 
umbrageous  taste.  It  is,  in  truth,  a  land  of  woods,  — 
at  least,  on  one  side ;  and  you  may  roam  among 
orange  and  lemon  trees  and  guavas  and  mangoes, 
amidst  aloes  and  cocoa-nut  and  cotton  and  mahogany 
trees,  till  you  would  wish  yourself  once  more  on  a 
Lancashire  moor.  Stabroek,  our  capital,  is  a  place 
where  the  houses  are  built  of  wood ;  where  melons, 
and  oranges,  and  pine-apples  grew  as  wild  as  thyself, 
Dick ;  and  where  black,  brown,  white,  and  whity-brown 
people,  sangaree  and  cigars,  abound.  Of  all  these 
marvels  I  shall  know  more  shortly.  I  lodge  here  at 
the  house  of  a  Dutch  planter,  where  you  must  address 
me  under  my  travelling  cognomen.  John  Vivian  is 
extinct  for  a  season ;  but  your  letter  will  find  me,  if  it 
be  addressed  to  "  Mr.  John  Vernon,  to  the  care  of 
Mynheer  Schlachenbriichen,  Merchant,  in  Demerara." 
That  respectable  individual  would  die  the  death  of 
shame,  did  he  know  that  he  held  the  great  "  pro- 
prietor,"   Vivian,   in   his  garret.      At  present,   I   am 


202  THE    PLANTER. 

nothing  more  than  a  poor  protege  of  Messrs.  Greffulhe, 
come  out  to  the  hot  latitudes  for  the  sake  of  heaUh  and 
employment. 

'  You  shall  hear  from  me  again  speedily ;  in  the 
mean  time,  write  to  me  at  length.  This  letter  is  a  pre- 
face merely  to  the  innumerable  number  of  good  things 
which  I  design  to  scribble  for  your  especial  instruction. 
It  leaves  for  you  only  a  certificate  of  my  safe  arrival, 
and  the  assurance  that  I  am,  as  ever,  your  true  friend, 

'  Vivian.' 

Vivian  was,  in  fact,  tolerably  pleased  with  the  banks 
of  the  river,  fringed  as  it  was  with  trees,  and  spotted 
with  cottages ;  but  when  he  actually  trod  upon  the 
ground  of  the  new  world,  and  found  himself  amidst  a 
crowd  of  black  and  tawny  faces  —  amidst  hats  like 
umbrellas,  paroquets,  and  birds  of  every  color  of  the 
rainbow,  and  children,  almost  as  various,  plunging  in 
and  out  of  the  river  like  water-dogs  or  mud-larks,  — 
he  could  not  conceal  his  admiration,  but  laughed  out- 
right. 

He  was  not  left  long  to  his  contemplations,  however, 
for  the  seaport  of  a  West  Indian  Colony  has  as  many 
volunteers  of  all  sorts  as  Dublin  itself.  A  score  of 
blacks  were  ready  to  assist  him  with  his  luggage,  and 
at  least  a  dozen  of  free  negresses  and  mulattoes  had 
baskets  of  the  best  fruit  in  the  world.  He  might  have 
had  a  wheelbarrow  full  for  sixpence,  and  the  aid  of  a 
dozen  Sambos  for  an  insignificant  compliment  in  cop- 
per. Neglecting  these  advantages,  Vivian  made  the 
best  of  his  way  to  the  house  of  the  Mynheer  Schla- 
chenbriJchen,  the  Fleming,  which  was  well  known  to 


THE   PLANTEK.  203 

all  the  clamorous  rogues  on  the  quay.  The  merchant 
was  not  at  home  ;  having  retired,  as  usual,  to  sleep  at 
his  plantation-house,  a  few  miles  from  town.  Our  hero, 
however,  was  received,  with  slow  and  formal  respect, 
by  his  principal  clerk,  Hans  Wassel,  a  strange  figure, 
somewhat  in  the  shape  of  a  cone,  that  had  originally 
sprung  up  (and  almost  struck  root)  somewhere  near 
Ghent  or  Bruges.  Holding  Vivian's  credentials  at 
arms  length,  this  'shape'  proceeded  to  decipher  the 
address  of  the  letter  through  an  enormous  pair  of  iron 
spectacles.  In  due  time  he  appeared  to  detect  the 
handwriting  of  the  London  correspondent ;  for  he 
snorted  out  '  Aw  !  Mynheer  Franz  GrefTulhe  ! '  and 
proceeded  to  open  a  seal  as  big  as  a  saucer,  and  inves- 
tigate the  contents.  These  were  evidently  satisfactory  ; 
for  he  put  on  a  look  of  benevolence,  and  welcomed 
the  new  comer  (who  was  announced  as  Mr.  Vernon)  to 
Stabroek.  '  You  will  take  a  schnap  ? '  inquired  he 
with  a  look  which  anticipated  an  affirmation.  '  As 
soon  as  you  please,'  replied  Vivian;  to  which  the  other 
retorted  with  another  '  Aw '  and  left  the  room  with 
something  approaching  to  alertness,  in  order  to  give 
the  necessary  orders. 

The  ordinary  domestics  of  the  Fleming  were  much 
more  rapid  in  their  movements,  for  Vivian  had  scarcely 
time  to  look  round  and  admire  the  neatness  of  the 
room,  when  a  clatter  at  the  door  compelled  him  to  turn 
his  eyes  to  that  quarter.  He  saw  a  lively  looking 
black  come  in,  with  a  large  pipe  of  curious  construc- 
tion, and  a  leaden  box  containing  tobacco,  followed 
close  by  his  co-mate  Sambo,  (another  *  nigritude,') 
who  bore  in  both  hands  a  huge  glass,  almost  as  big  as 


204  THE    PLANTER. 

a  punch-bowl,  filled  to  the  brim  with  tnje  Nantz, 
tempered,  but  not  injured,  by  a  small  portion  of  water. 
Sambo  appeared  justly  proud  of  his  burthen,  which  he 
placed  on  the  table  in  its  original  state  of  integrity; 
for,  after  looking  for  a  moment  lovingly  at  the  liquid, 
he  turned  round  to  Vivian,  and  said  exultingly,  '  Dere, 
Massa ! ' 

But  we  need  not  detain  the  reader  with  any  detail 
of  our  hero's  movements  on  his  arrival  in  the  colony, 
excepting  one  or  two,  which  have  direct  reference  to 
the  present  narrative.  He  was  introduced  to  Mynheer 
SchlachenbriJchen  and  his  wife,  each  of  whom,  were 
our  limits  larger,  might  fairly  lay  claim  to  commemo- 
ration. As  it  is,  we  must  pass  them  by,  and  content 
oureelves  with  stating  the  fact  of  their  (the  merchant 
at  all  events)  treating  Vivian  with  more  consideration 
than  his  ostensible  rank  demanded,  and  introducing 
him  to  their  family  and  friends.  The  person,  however, 
into  whose  society  Vivian  was  more  especially  thrown, 
was  a  young  girl  who  performed  the  offices  of  gover- 
ness, &c.,  &c.,  in  the  house  of  the  Mynheer  Schlach- 
enbruchen.  The  visitors  of  the  family  avoided  her  as 
though  she  had  the  plague,  (even  the  Mynheer  himself 
preserved  a  distance) ;  and  the  consequence  was  that 
Vivian,  himself  rather  looked  down  upon  by  the 
colonial  aristocracy,  felt  himself  drawn  nearer  to  the 
friendless  girl,  and  assiduously  cultivated  her  good 
opinion.  This,  however,  was  not  a  thing  to  be  easily 
attained.  Sophie  Halstein  (for  that  was  her  name) 
had  few  of  the  qualities  commonly  ascribed  to  thriving  , 
governesses.  She  was,  indeed,  an  acute-minded  and 
even  accomplished  girl ;  but  she  was  as  little  supple. 


THE    PLANTER.  205 

demure,  or  humble,  as  Vivian  himself.  In  fact,  she 
received  our  hero's  advances  with  indifferent  cordiality 
at  first ;  but  the  magic  of  sincerity  will  win  its  way, 
and  they  accordingly,  at  last,  became  excellent  friends. 
The  thing  which  surprised  our  hero  the  most  was,  how 
it  was  possible  for  the  dull,  gross,  unenlightened  block- 
heads of  the  colony  to  feel,  or  even  affect,  a  disdain 
for  one  who  was  evidently  so  much  their  superior.  At 
last  the  truth  came  upon  him  —  she  was  the  child  of  a 
quadroon  !  She  was  lovely,  graceful,  virtuous,  intel- 
lectual, accomplished,  modest  —  a  model  for  women  ; 
but  she  had  a  particle  —  scarcely  apparent,  indeed, 
but  still  there  was  a  particle  or  two  —  a  few  drops 
of  blood  of  a  warmer  tinge  than  what  loiters  through 
the  pallid  cheeks  of  an  European  :  and  hence  she  was 
visited  by  universal  contempt. 

'  Ten  thousand  curses  on  their  narrow  souls  ! '  was 
Vivian's  first  exclamation.  '  She  shall  be  my  friend, 
my  —  my  —  sister.  The  senseless,  brutal  wretches ! 
They  little  think  that,  under  the  mask  of  Vernon,  the 
wealthiest  of  their  tribe  is  amongst  them,  and  that  he 
respects  the  little  Pariah  beyond  the  whole  of  their 
swollen  and  beggarly  race.'  A  very  short  time  was 
sufficient  for  him  to  form  a  determination  to  rescue  the 
object  of  his  admiration  from  her  painful  state  of  ser- 
vitude. Not  being  accustomed,  however,  to  deal  with 
the  delicacies  of  ladies,  he  plunged  at  once  into  the 
matter  with  headlong  rashness. 

'  You  are  badly  off,  Miss  Halstein  ? '  said  Vivian  to 
her  one  morning,  in  his  very  bluntest  tone. 

*  I  do  not  complain.  Sir,'  replied  she,  coldly. 


206  THE   PLANTER. 

'  I  am  sorry  for  you,'  said  he,  hesitatingly,  *  and 
would  help  you.' 

*  Spare  your  pity  ! '  returned  the  lady,  '  we  have 
neither  of  us  much  to  thank  fortune  for.  Yet  you  are 
content,  or  seem  so ;  and  so  also  can  I  be.  We  will 
talk  on  another  subject.' 

'  S'death  ! '  exclaimed  the  other,  recollecting  his 
incognito,  '  I  had  forgot.  Pardon  me,  I  was  a  fool. 
You  will  think  me  mad  with  my  offers  of  help  and  my 
show  of  pity,  but  it  is  not  so.  I  am  sane  enough,  and 
some  of  these  days  you  shall  confess  it.  Come ;  will 
you  not  go  with  us  up  the  river  .-*  We  are  to  run  up 
almost  as  far  as  the  Sandhills  to-morrow,  to  visit  the 
Reynestein  Estate  and  the  Palm  Groves  which  belong 
to  the  rich  Englishman,  Vivian.  Perhaps  you  were 
never  there  ? ' 

*  I  was  born  there,'  was  the  reply  ;  and  it  was  some- 
what tremulously  uttered. 

'  Ha  !  then  you  will  be  delighted  to  visit  the  spot, 
no  doubt.     Did  you  know  the  late  proprietor  ? ' 

*  Too  well,'  said  she ;  '  he  was  —  a  villain.' 

'  How,  Madam  ? '  Vivian  was  forgetting  himself 
again  at  this  attack  on  his  uncle's  memory ;  but  he 
hastened  to  recover.  '  I  mean  the  last  owner,'  he 
resumed,  *  whose  name  was,  I  think,  Morson.' 

'I  knew  him,  Sir;  and,  as  I  have  said,  too  well. 
Do  you  know  by  what  luck  it  was  that  he  obtained  the 
Palm  Groves  ?  No  >  Then  I  will  tell  you.  Sir.  His 
predecessor  was  a  careless,  easy,  and  very  old  man. 
By  a  series  of  unforeseen  reverses,  by  the  failure  of 
correspondents,  and  the  roguery  of  friends,  he  became 
involved  at  last.     All  that  he  wanted,  however,  was 


THE    PLANTER.  207 

a  little  money  for  present  exigencies ;  with  that,  and  a 
course  of  economy  for  a  few  years,  he  might  have 
retrieved  his  broken  fortunes.  His  most  intimate 
friend  and  neighbor  was  this  Morson.  Who,  then, 
more  likely  than  he  to  help  him  with  a  loan  of  money  ? 
He  was  rich  and  childless ;  but  the  old  planter  whom 
I  have  spoken  of  had  one  single  child  —  a  girl.  Pity, 
therefore,  as  well  as  friendship,  might  move  Morson  to 
aid  him  in  his  extremity.  And  he  did  aid  him  ;  at 
least  he  lent  him  money,  at  the  instigation  of  his 
manager  — ' 

*  Seyton  ?  '  asked  Vivian,  interrupting  her. 

*  Yes,  Seyton,'  replied  she,  '  who  coveted  the  old 
planter's  daughter  for  a  wife,  and  who  thought  that,  if 
the  parent  were  ruined,  his  child  would  be  glad  of  any 
refuge.  He  dreamed  that  she,  who  had  interfered 
often  between  him  and  his  victims,  would  forget  all 
her  old  abhorrence,  and  unite  her  fate  with  that  of  the 
most  barbarous  tyrant  that  ever  disgraced  even  a  West 
Indian  colony.     Well,  Sir,  to  end  this  tedious  story  — ' 

'  It  is  most  interesting  to  me,'  said  Vivian  —  *  deeply, 
deeply  interesting ; '  and  his  glowing  eyes  and  earnest 
attention  were  sufficient  proofs  that  he  spoke  truly. 

*  Well,  Sir,  tlie  end  was  that  Morson  advanced  the 
money  ;  that  Seyton  intrigued  with  the  slaves,  and 
caused  many  of  them  to  revolt  and  run  away  into  the 
woods  ;  and  that  the  poor  old  man  fell  from  trouble 
into  want,  and  from  want  into  absolute  despair.  His 
plantations  were  useless ;  his  crops  perished  on  the 
ground  for  want  of  slaves ;  his  mills  and  buildings 
were  burnt  by  unknown  hands ;  and  finally,  his  hard 
and  avaricious  creditor,  the  relentless  Morson,  came 


208  THE   PLANTER. 

upon  him,  and  took  possession  of  all  his  estates  for 
a  debt  amounting  to  one  sixth  of  their  value.  The 
old  man  '  —  (Miss  Halstein's  voice  shook  at  this  part, 
and  betrayed  great  agitation,) — 'the  old  man  soon 
afterwards  died,  and  his  only  child  was  cast  upon  the 
world  to  earn  her  bitter  bread.  This  is  all.  Sir.  I 
have  given  you  the  history  of  one  half  of  Mr.  Vivian's 
property :  perhaps  the  other '  (she  spoke  this  with 
some  acrimony)  '  is  held  upon  a  similar  tenure.' 

'  God  forbid  ! '  said  Vivian.  '  But  Seyton  ?  —  Did  he 
urge  his  suit  ? ' 

'  He  did,  and  was  refused.  And  therefore  it  is  (for 
he  is  a  bad  and  revengeful  man)  that  I  am  fearful  of 
coming  upon  an  estate  of  which  he  is,  essentially,  the 
master.  In  the  absence  of  Mr.  Vivian,  his  power  is 
uncontrolled  ;  and  there  is  no  knowing  what  claim  he 
might  urge  against  me.  He  once  hinted  that  I  was 
born  a  slave  on  the  Palm  Grove  Estate,  and,  as  such, 
belonged  to  his  master.  I,  who  am  the  own  daughter 
of  Wilhelm  Halstein,  to  whom  all,  but  a  few  years  ago, 
belonged.' 

'  You  ! '  exclaimed  our  hero.  "  Are  you  the  person 
whom  Vivian  intercepts  ?  He  shall  do  it  no  more. 
Rest  content,  Miss  Halstein.  Vivian  is  not  the  man  to 
injure  any  one,  and  least  of  all  yourself.  Go  with  us 
to-morrow  — I  beg,  I  pray,  that  you  will.  I  pledge  my 
honor — my  soul,  that  you  shall  not  be  a  sufferer.' 

The  lady  still  refused,  however,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  old  merchant  (SchlachenbriJchen,  to  whom  Vivian 
had  spoken  privately  in  the  meantime)  had  also  given 
his  solemn  promise  to  protect  her,  that  she  consented  to 
go.     She  was  a  little   surprised,  indeed,  at   Vivian's 


THE   PLANTER.  209 

urging  the  matter  so  vehemently  ;  but  as  the  merchant 
seconded  his  requests,  somewhat  perhaps  in  the  shape 
of  a  command,  she  did  not  persist  in  refusing. 

A  row  up  the  river  Demerara,  past  Diamond  Point 
to  the  Sandhills,  need  not  call  for  any  particular  de- 
scription. We  will  suppose  that  the  party  had  arrived  at 
the  Palm  Grove  Estate,  which  the  merchant  (authorized 
by  a  power  transmitted  by  Vivian  from  England)  had 
come  to  overlook. 

The  party  were  introduced  to  Seyton,  a  ferocious 
looking  man,  of  middle  age,  who,  with  a  mixture  of 
self-consequence  and  ambiguous  civility,  welcomed  the 
merchant  and  his  companions.  He  took  no  notice  of 
Vivian,  indeed,  but  when  he  saw  Miss  Halstein  (who 
leant  on  our  hero's  arm)  his  eyes  sparkled  and  his 
lips  curled,  and  turning  to  the  merchant,  he  said 
hastily,  '  Before  you  leave  the  estate,  there  is  a  point 
of  some  consequence  that  I  must  take  leave  to  mention, 
respecting  this  young  person  ; '  and  he  touched  her,  as 
he  spoke,  with  the  point  of  the  cane. that  he  carried  in 
his  hand. 

'  Stand  off,  fellow  ! '  said  Vivian  angrily,  '  another 
touch,  or  another  insolent  word,  and  I  will  lay  you  at 
my  feet.' 

The  other  started,  and  examined  our  hero's  ap- 
pearance, cautiously  and  sullenly.  He  saw  nothing, 
however,  except  an  athletic  figure  and  a  resolute  coun- 
tenance, and  retreated  from  collision  with  so  formidable 
an  opponent.  He  did  not,  however,  retreat  from  his 
demand. 

*  Observe,  Mynheer,'  said  he,  addressing  the  mer- 
voi..  X.  14 


210  THE    PLANTER. 

chant  once  more,  *  I  speak  as  the  agent  only  of  Mr. 
Viviain.  This  gentleman  will  scarcely  blame  me  for 
insisting  on  the  rights  of  my  principal.' 

'  By  no  means —  by  no  means,'  replied  the  merchant. 
*  All  in  good  time.  We  will  talk  of  that,  presently.  In 
the  mean  time,  we  will  look  at  the  balances.  After  that 
we  will  ask  what  your  larder  contains  ;  and  then  —  for 
tlie  rights  you  speak  of.  Eh,  Mr.  Vernon,  is  not  (tiat 
the  way  ? ' 

'  Certainly,  certainly,'  said  Vivian.  '  Miss  Halstein 
will  leave  all  to  you ;  I  am  quite  sure  that  she  may  do 
so  safely.' 

Two  or  three  hours  were  sufficient  to  overlook  the 
accounts,  and  to  dispose  of  the  refreshments,  which 
were  offered  with  some  degree  of  parade  to  the  visitors, 
at  the  expense  of  the  estate.  Vivian  ate  heartily,  and 
without  scruple,  of  the  produce  of  his  own  property  ; 
and  everything  unpleasant  seemed  forgotten,  except 
by  Miss  Halstein,  when  the  party  (which  had  been 
augmented,  as  agreed  upon,  by  the  arrival  of  the 
Syndic,  from  Stabroek,)  prepared  to  go. 

'  Now,'  said  Seyton,  '  I  must  once  more  draw  your 
attention  to  my  demand.  I  claim  this  —  lady,  if  you 
will,  —  as  a  slave.  She  was  born  on  the  estate,  has 
never  been  made  free,  and  belongs  of  right  to  my 
principal,  Vivian.' 

'  Bah  !  man,'  exclaimed  the  merchant ;  *  I  thought 
all  that  was  past.  Surely,  good  wine  and  excellent 
nantz  must  have  washed  all  such  bad  thoughts  out  of 
your  head.  Come,  let  us  go.  Sophie,  girl,  take  hold 
of  Mr.  Vernon's  aj'm,  and  — ' 

'By  your  leave  it  must  not  be  so,'  said  Seyton  im- 


THE   PLANTER.  211 

peratively.  He  ning  a  bell,  and  eight  or  ten  black 
slaves  appeared.  *  You  are  at  liberty  to  go,  gentle- 
men ;  but  the  lady  remains  with  me.  Have  I  not  the 
law  with  me  ?  '  added  he,  addressing  the  Syndic. 

That  officer  assented,  adding,  however,  that  all 
depended  on  the  will  of  Vivian.  The  lady  might, 
indeed,'  be  entitled  to  her  liberty  ;  but  until  she  proved 
her  freedom,  she  must  remain  the  property  of  the 
planter. 

'  That  is  sufficient,'  said  Seyton,  '  I  am  Vivian's 
representative.' 

'  Then  I  am  lost,'  exclaimed  Sophie. 

'  Pardon  me,'  replied  the  Syndic,  *  Mr.  Seyton  is 
superseded.  Mynheer,  here,  has  the  power  of  appoint- 
ing a  manager  over  his  property.  Besides  which,  Mr. 
Vivian  himself  has  arrived  at  Stabroek  — ' 

*  Ha ! '  —  said  Seyton,  '  then  no  time  is  to  be  lost. 
Superseded  or  not,  Mr.  Vivian  shall  not  lose  his  prop- 
erty. Do  your  duty,  fellows,'  added  he,  addressing 
the  slaves.  *  Seize  upon  that  woman,  in  the  name  of 
your  master,  Vivian.' 

'  Back,  I  say,'  said  our  hero,  pulling  out  a  brace  of 
pistols,  and  pointing  them  towards  the  advancing 
negroes.  '  Back,  men,  and  be  wise.  And  you,  Mr. 
Manager,  or  whatever  you  are,  take  heed  how  you 
overstep  your  duty.  Know,  Sirrah,  that  your  master 
does  not  think  your  false  accounts  the  worst  part  of 
your  bad  history.  Your  cruelty  to  these  poor  slaves 
beneath  you  has  come  to  his  ears;  and  for  that  he 
dismisses  you  from  his  service.  For  your  impudent 
and  unfounded  claim  upon  this  lady,  whom  your 
master  loves  — ' 


212  THE    PLANTER. 

'  What ! '  exclaimed  Sophie ;  but  the  merchant 
restrained  her  surprise. 

'  Whom  your  master  loves,  wooes,  and  whom  if 
Heaven  is  propitious  (he  says  this  doubtingly  and  hum- 
bly), he  will  wed.  For  this  atrocious  insult  there  is  no 
punishment  great  enough.  Yet,  if  any  attempt  be 
made  upon  her,  you  shall  at  least  be  chastised  to  your 
heart's  content.  Be  satisfied  that  I  do  not  jest,  and 
remain  quiet.' 

*  We  are  all  armed,  Mr.  Seyton,'  said  the  merchant; 
'  you  had  better  let  us  depart  quietly.' 

'  She  shall  not  go,'  replied  Seyton,  foaming  with 
rage.  'Once  more,  seize  upon  her,  men;  seize  upon 
her  for  your  master,  Vivian.  Till  he  comes,  I  will  be 
dbeyed  at  least.' 

'  He  is  here  !  '  said  Vivian,  rushing  between  Sophie 
and  her  adversaries  —  'he  is  here  :  he  overlooks  you 
and  will  punish  you.  Look,  slaves,  I  am  Vivian,  — 
your  master  !  Obey  me  as  you  value  the  liberty  which 
every  man  on  my  estate  shall  have,  —  if  he  deserves 
it.' 

*  What  he  says  is  true.  This  is,  indeed,  Mr.  Vivian,' 
said  the  merchant;  and  the  Syndic  corroborated  his 
tale. 

All  was  quiet  in  an  instant.  Yet  Sophie  Halstein 
still  looked  overcome. 

*  What  is  this  ? '  inquired  the  merchant :  '  you  ought 
to  be  rejoiced.' 

*  I  am,'  she  replied.  '  But,  Mr.  Vivian,  you  have 
something  to  forget.     Can  you  forgive  me  ; ' 

'  I  cannot,'  answered  Vivian,   '  unless  with  the  Palm 


THE    PLANTER.  213 

Groves,  (which  from  this  moment  is  all  your  own)  you 
take  an  incumbrance  with  it.' 

'  And  that  is  —  ? '  said  Miss  Halstein,  inquiringly  — 

'  It  is  myself,  Sophie,'  replied  Vivian,  tenderly. 
'  Prithee,  be  generous  :  and  think  what  a  way  I  have 
wandered  from  home.  Take  pity  on  me,  and  give  me 
shelter  with  you  at  the  Palm  Groves.' 

'  We  will  talk  of  this  hereafter,'  said  Miss  Halstein, 
gently,  and  dropping  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

'  What  a  strange  lover  he  is,'  whispered  the  Syndic 
to  the  merchant. 

*  That  is  true  enough  ; '  answered  the  other.  '  Yet, 
I  would  wager  a  grosschen  that  he  succeeds.  He  is  a 
fine,  intrepid,  persevering  young  fellow ;  and  such 
men  seldom  fail  in  anything  they  set  their  hearts 
upon.' 

The  old  merchant  was  a  true  prophet.  For  before 
three  months  had  elapsed,  the  pretty  Sophie  became 
lawful  mistress  of  the  heart  and  household  of  Vivian. 
The  Reynestein  flourished  ;  but  the  Palm  Groves 
became  their  home.  In  the  course  of  time  the  blacks 
on  their  estates  emerged  from  the  condition  of  bond- 
men ;  but  remained  as  cultivators,  attracted  equally  by 
kind  treatment,  and  an  equitable  share  of  the  profits  of 
their  labors. 

'  After  all,  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world,' 
said  Vivian  one  day  to  his  wife, '  is  conferring  pleasure ; 
and  perhaps  the  greatest  pleasure  which  one  can 
confer,  is  to  give  Freedom  to  one's  fellow-man.' 

1831. 


VICISSITUDES  IN  A  LAWYER'S  LIFE. 


Some  years  ago,  a  friend  of  mine  was  called  up  to 
London,  as  being  the  representative  of  a  person  that 
had  lately  died  intestate.  The  deceased  had  been  a 
barrister  of  some  reputation  with  his  class,  but  in 
small  practice  :  and,  not  having  during  his  life  been 
very  communicative  respecting  his  affairs,  it  was 
thought  necessary  that  my  friend  (who  was  his  cousin 
and  next  to  kin)  should  personally  superintend  the 
opening  of  his  desk  and  papers,  and  endeavor  to 
ascertain  the  amount  of  property  to  which  he  had 
become  heir.  Being  myself  somewhat  of  a  man  of 
business,  although  no  lawyer,  I  accompanied  him  on 
these  occasions,  and  assisted  him  on  all  others  with  my 
friendship  and  advice.  After  long  and  careful  inves- 
tigation, however,  we  could  discover  nothing  in  the 
shape  of  money,  beyond  a  sum  of  <£120  stock  in  the 
Three  per  Cents.,  together  with  a  few  sovereigns  and 
some  loose  silver  in  his  chambers.  He  had  evidently 
lived,  from  day  to  day,  on  what  his  profession  brought 
him.  There  was,  indeed,  an  indifferent  law  library, 
which  we  disposed  of  for  forty  or  fifty  pounds,  and  a 
few  precedents,  (of  conveyances,  bills  and  answers  in 


VICISSITUDES    IN   A   LAWYER'S   LIFE.  215 

chancery,  and  such  like  things,)  which  we  charitably- 
presented  to  the  clerk  ;  but  nothing  farther  worthy  of 
mention,  —  excepting  only  the  manuscript,  of  which 
a  copy  is  given  below.  This  was  found  lying,  with 
other  unimportant  papers,  in  the  drawer  of  his  table, 
and  having  been  tied  up  with  red  tape,  and  written  on 
what  the  lawyers  call  draft  paper,  was  at  first  mistaken 
by  us  for  a  matter  of  business.  Just,  however,  as  my 
friend  was  handing  over  the  bundle  to  the  clerk,  a  few 
letters  which  wei*e  on  the  back  caught  my  attention, 
and,  on  looking  closer,  I  perceived  the  words,  '  Some 
account  of  my  life.'  Being  curious  in  my  reading, 
(for  which,  however,  I  have  but  little  time  to  spare 
from  my  business,)  I  begged  the  manuscript  from  my 
friend,  who  was  delighted  at  an  opportunity  of  making 
some  return  for  my  exertions.  I  had  no  thoughts  of 
rendering  the  matter  public,  as  will  easily  be  believed ; 
but  a  literary  acquaintance  having  run  his  eye  over  it, 
recommended  me  to  print  it.  He  offered,  moreover, 
to  *  polish  it  up,'  and  '  make  it  fit  for  the  press ; '  but 
(though  I  listened  to  his  recommendation  as  to  publish- 
ing) I  determined  that  it  should  appear  in  its  natural 
dress,  if  it  appeared  at  all.  I  am  one  of  those  who 
think  that  the  feelings  of  an  individual  can  be  best 
expressed  in  his  own  unstudied  language.  Indepen- 
dently of  this,  I  was  desirous  of  exhibiting  to  the 
world  what  Mr.  Coleridge  calls  '  a  psychological  curi- 
osity,' or,  in  other  words,  the  autobiography  of  a 
lawyer,  who,  after  having  dwelt  in  the  midst  of  forms 
and  tautologies  for  twenty  years,  had  courage  to  write 
like  a  rational  being,  and  to  put  down  his  thoughts  in 
common  language.     The  parallel  of  '  the  dyer's  hand ' 


216  VICISSITUDES    IX    A    LAWYER's    LIFE. 

(which  the  great  poet,  Shakspere,  adverts  to)  does 
not,  as  it  appears  to  me,  hold  good  upon  all  occasions. 
But  1  will  not  detain  the  reader  any  longer  from  the 
counsellor's  manuscript.  The  following  is  a  verbatim 
copy  of  it,  made  by  my  own  hand,  and  carefully 
examined  with  the  original :  — 

THE    lawyer's    STOKY. 

* .  .  .  Had  I  followed  the  example  of  my  fathers,  I 
should  now  be  a  farmer  of  thirty  acres,  on  the  banks 
of  a  little  stream  that  runs  into  the  Somersetshire 
Avon.  My  ancestors  had  vegetated  there  for  the 
greater  part  of  a  couple  of  centuries ;  few  of  them 
having  ever  exceeded,  during  their  lives,  the  limit  of 
twenty  miles  from  the  village  church,  and  all  of 
them  having  been  born  and  buried  there.  Even  I 
myself  should  probably  have  trod  the  same  quiet  and 
confined  course,  had  not  a  solitary  spark  of  ambition 
flamed  up  in  my  father's  heart,  and  fired  him  to  do 
honor  to  the  family  name.  For  we  descended  origi- 
nally from  a  noble  and  very  ancient  stock ;  and  we 

never  forgot   it.     "  The  s  were   knighted  at  the 

Conquest !  "  This  was  the  sentence  that  kept  the  pride 
and  vanity  boiling  in  our  bloods.  Like  the  secret 
hoard  of  the  miser,  it  cheered  us  in  our  poverty : 
perhaps  it  also  nourished  a  vague  feeling  of  honor, 
and  saved  us  from  committing  unworthy  actions ;  but 
this  is  doubtful.  We  had  passed  through  eight  or  ten 
generations  since  we  could  boast  of  unmixed  nobility  ; 
and  ever  since  that  time  we  had  been  mingling  our 
blood,  marriage  after  marriage,  with  the  yeoman's  and 
the  peasant's.      Our  wealth  had  been  dissipated,  our 


VICISSITUDES   IN   A   LAWYER'S   LIFE.  217 

consequence  humbled,  our  minds  overgrown  with  igno- 
rance ;  but  the  pride,  the  "airy  nothing"  of  our  name, 
survived  all  changes  and  disasters.  Thus  the  human 
taste  (I  mean  the  bodily  sense)  which  appears  to  be  so 
oblivious,  is  known  to  retain  its  impressions  longer 
than  any  other  faculty.  The  mind  forgets  a  name  or 
an  image,  a  peculiar  touch,  a  note  of  music;  but  an 
odor  or  a  flavor  is  remembered  in  an  instant,  with  all 
its  freshness  and  all  its  concurring  circumstances,  after 
a  lapse  of  thirty  or  forty  years.  So  it  was  with  us. 
Our  pride,  which  one  would  imagine  would  have  been 
of  so  frail  and  evanescent  a  nature  as  to  have  been 
extinguished  by  the  first  brush  of  poverty,  remained  to 
us,  adhered  to  us  like  a  canker  or  a  disease,  when  all 
our  important  distinctions  had  perished. 

'  I  was  brought  up  somev,fhat  roughly,  and  was  suf- 
fered to  run  about  wild  and  idle  enough  until  I  attained 
my  tenth  year,  when  I  was  committed  to  the  manage- 
ment of  the  village  schoolmistress.  With  my  satchel 
and  well-thumbed  primer,  my  pockets  half  full  of 
marbles,  and  a  couple  of  formidable  slices  of  bread, 
(with  butter  or  bacon  between,)  for  my  dinner,  I  used 
regularly  every  morning  to  take  my  way  to  the  little 
school.  What  progress  I  attained  there  has  escaped 
my  memory ;  but  I  think  that  lessons  in  three  syllables 
were  the  summit  of  my  accomplishments.  My  father, 
who  was  dissatisfied  at  my  progress,  wished  anxiously 
to  remove  me  to  a  better  school ;  and  at  last  a  legacy 
of  £lWi  enabled  him  to  put  his  ambitious  schemes 
into  execution.  I  was  removed  without  loss  of  time  to 
the  "classical  academy"  of  Mr. ,  and  after  re- 
maining there  three  or  four  years,  was  pronounced  to 


218  VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWVEr's    LIFE. 

be  "  fit  for  anything."  But  then  came  the  question 
—  the  serious  and  too  often  discussed  question — What 
course  should  I  like  to  follow  ?  '*  What  shall  we  make 
of  you,  John?"  asked  my  father,  with  an  inquisitive, 
exulting  look.  He  had  evidendy  visions  of  bishops, 
and  judges,  and  generals,  floating  before  his  eyes.  All 
the  splendid  accidents  of  fortune  had  been  repeatedly 
the  subject  of  conversation  between  us.  The  stories 
of  men  who  had  risen  from  a  low  beginninor,  from  the 
most  squalid  servitude,  from  the  poor-house  and  the 
prison,  and  afterwards  realized  the  wealth  of  CrcESUs, 
were  familiar  to  us.  We  lived  in  a  dream  of  riches. 
We  surmounted  obstacles  ;  we  overtook  rivals  in  the 
race  to  power.  No  opposition  deterred  us.  Fame, 
and  profit,  and  power,  were  at  the  end  of  every  pros- 
pect. The  only  question  was,  which  was  the  best  road 
to  pursue  ?  That  problem,  however,  it  was  difiicult  to 
solve. 

*  "  W^ill  you  study  politics  ?    or  law  ?  or  physic  ?  " 
asked  my  father,  with  an  earnest  face,  **  or  will  you 

become  a  soldier  or  a  sailor ?  "     (He  was  stopped 

here  by  my  mother,  who  pronounced  a  rapid  negative 
on  the  two  last  professions  ;)  —  "or  will  you  turn  your 

mind  to  divinity r  "  —  "I  will  not  be  a  parson," 

returned  I,  at  once.  "  And  why  ?  "  was  the  question. 
"  Because  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  curate,  '  passing  poor 
with  forty  pounds  a-year.'  I  like  to  speculate  and 
think,  even  to  the  limits  of  orthodoxy.  I  cannot  raise 
myself  to  a  living  by  flattery ;  and  could  I  do  so,  I 
should  fear  to  encounter  the  hate  of  every  inhabitant 
of  my  parish,  by  stripping  them  yearly  for  my  tithes. 
Let   it  be    something    else."  —  Thus   it  was   that  we 


VICISSITUDES   IN   A   LAWYER'S   LIFE.  219 

discussed  the  hours  away.  Sometimes  a  red-coat  was 
most  attractive  to  me  ;  sometimes  a  blue  one.  Then 
the  carriage  and  ruffles  of  the  physician  caught  my 
fancy ;  and  then  the  debates  in  Parliament,  which  the 
"  County  Chronicle  "  regularly  pared  down  to  suit  its 
columns,  inflamed  my  wishes,  till  I  was  absolutely 
bewildered  by  the  number  of  the  avenues  to  fame.  At 
last,  however,  my  father  and  I  (my  mother  concurring) 
determined  upon  —  the  Law!  I  remember  the  happy 
evening  whereon  this  resolution  was  formed.  My  father 
was  in  high  spirits.  "  We  will  drink  a  glass  of  wine, 
for  once  in  a  way,  to  the  future  Judge,"  said  he.  "I 
hope  you  will  never  hang  anybody,  John  ?  "  said  my 
mother  ;  if  I  thought  so,  I  would  call  back  my  consent." 
"  Never  fear,"  replied  my  father ;  "  he  will  do  what  is 
right,  I  know.  If  his  country  should  require  such  a 
painful  act  from  him,  he  will  not  flinch  from  his  duty." 
"  I  will  never  hang  a  man  for  forgery,  however,"  ex-' 
claimed  I,  doggedly  :  "  Blood  for  blood,  is  the  old  law, 
but  nothing  farther  for  me."  "  My  dear  John,"  inter- 
rupted my  mother  reprovingly,  "  do  you  not  hear  what 
your  father  says  ?  If  your  duty  should  require  it,  &c., 
&c."  It  will  scarcely  be  believed  that  we  could  go 
on  quarrelling  respecting  so  remote  a  contingency. 
But  so  it  was.  I  tried  —  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  tell  it 
—  I  tried  on  my  father's  wig  that  very  evening,  in  order 
that  I  might  see,  before  the  matter  was  absolutely  irre- 
vokable,  how  a  wig  would  become  me,  when  I  should 
be  advanced  to  the  bench  !  How  near  I  arrived  to  that 
point  of  ambition  will  be  seen  hereafter. 

'  The  law  being  resolved  upon,  the  only  question  that 
remained  was,  whether  I  should  be  sent  to  college,  or 


220  VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER's    LIFE. 

pass  through  the  refining  process  of  an  attorney's  office. 
We  were  in  considerable  perplexity  on  this  point,  when 
a  friend  of  my  father's  happened  to  step  in  and  deter- 
mined the  matter  for  us.  He  was  a  rough,  eccentric 
man,  but  had  withal  his  share  of  sense ;  and  on  the 
difficulty  being  stated  to  him,  he  replied  with  a  loud, 
continuous  whistle,  that  argued  anything  but  an  approval 
of  our  projects.  "College!"  he  exclaimed,  looking 
askant  at  me  :  "  why  he  is  half  a  fool  already :  if  you 
send  him  to  college  you'll  make  him  a  fool  complete." 
It  must  be  owned  in  extenuation  of  the  old  man's  rude- 
ness, that  my  deportment  at  this  time  somewhat  justified 
his  suspicions.  I  had  so  long  been  dreaming  after  the 
fashion  of  Alnaschar,  that  I  bore  myself  now  and  then 
towards  my  old  acquaintance  and  equals  in  a  way  that 
not  even  the  elevation  I  reckoned  on  could  have  justi- 
fied. In  truth,  I  had  become  a  considerable  coxcomb. 
I  was  not,  I  think,  naturally  vain ;  but  my  poor  father's 
hopes  and  my  mother's  smiles  and  prophecies,  brought 
out  the  germ  of  folly  into  sudden  blossom.  It  was 
well  for  me  that  it  was  timely  checked.  Our  friend's 
advice  was  taken.  All  notions  of  college  were  aban- 
doned, and  I  was  sent  off",  for  five  years,  to  the  office 
of  an  attorney  in  our  county  town. 

'  The  toil  of  an  attoi-ney's  life  is  much  exaggerated. 
It  is  held  up  as  a  sort  of  hideous  spectrum  to  the  imagi- 
nations of  youth,  and  has  deterred  many  an  intelligent 
and  diffident  boy,  and  hundreds  of  doting  mothers 
from  adding  a  victim  to  the  shrine  of  law.  In  the 
country,  at  least,  there  is  little  to  do  that  need  alarm  an 
ordinary  student.  A  brain  of  very  common  strength  is 
sufficient  to  bear  up  against  all  the  impediments  that 


VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE.  221 

usually  beset  this  period  of  probation.  Even  the  fictions 
of  our  jurisprudence  (not  the  least  vicious  of  its  quali- 
ties) may  be  mastered,  though  not  admired.  Admira- 
tion demands  a  subtler  scrutiny,  a  longer  and  closer 
intimacy  with  law,  than  a  youth  —  nay  than  even  I,  a 
veteran  of  thirty  years,  have  been  able  to  contract  with 
it.  In  truth,  its  first  aspect  is  rugged  and  severe 
towards  all.  It  was  so  with  me,  but  habit  reconciled 
me  to  my  labors  ;  and  thus  —  with  an  occasional  novel 
in  the  evening,  and  a  walk  with  a  rustic  belle  on  Sun- 
day, a  short  half-yearly  visit  to  my  parents,  and  a  dance 
or  two  in  the  cold  winter  weather,  —  I  managed  to  run 
through  my  five  years  of  clerkship,  with  considerable 
satisfaction  to  myself,  and  not  wholly  without  the  appro- 
bation of  my  employers.  At  the  expiration  of  that 
period  I  had  the  choice  before  me — whether  to  pursue 
the  humbler  but  safer  course  of  an  attorney,  or  to  ven- 
ture upon  the  dangerous  but  dazzling  chances  of  the 
bar.  I  preferred  the  latter;  and,  after  a  short  sojourn 
at  home,  I  was  at  once  let  loose  upon  —  London  ! 

'  The  stride  from  the  quiet  of  the  country,  from  its 
sleepy,  stagnant  current  of  existence,  to  the  soil  and 
centre  of  intellectual,  busy  and  ambitious  life,  is  great 
and  fearful.  I  think  of  it  with  a  shudder  even  now. 
The  sudden  escape  from  all  control  is  of  itself  perilous 
enough.  But  when,  in  addition  to  this,  one  is  thrown 
amongst  the  struggling  and  vicious  crowds  of  London, 
into  her  noisy  streets  and  abandoned  haunts  (arenas 
more  dangerous  than  even  the  bloody  circuses  of  Eome, 
where  the  wild  beast  and  the  gladiator  fought  and 
mangled  each  other,  for  —  what?)  the  wonder  is,  that 


222  vicissiTUUEs  IN  A  lawyer's  life. 

so  many  of  the  young  and  inexperienced  survive  to 
attain  anything  like  a  moral  maturity. 

'  I  was  told  that  I  ought  to  see  "  the  world  ;  "  and  I 
was  ready  enough  to  behold  it.  "  You  should  see 
everything  once,  at  least,"  said  a  new  acquaintance  : 
**  take  a  glance  at  everything :  sow  your  wild  oats ; 
and  then  sit  down  and  fag  steadily  at  law."  This  was 
the  advice  of  a  man  who  was  esteemed  for  his  prudence, 
and  not  a  little  respected  for  his  knowledge  of  "  the 
town."  It  was  impossible  to  reject  such  counsel ;  and 
accordingly  I  resolved  to  see  and  judge  of  everything. 
What  places  this  resolution  led  me  into,  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  detail.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  death  of 
my  father  and  mother  about  this  time  by  an  infectious 
fever,  enabled  me  to  see  London  to  my  heart's  content. 
I  was  the  sole  heir  of  their  little  property,  which  I 
speedily  disposed  of;  not,  however,  before  I  had  given 
an  honest  plumper  at  the  county  election  to  a  candidate 
who  was  hard  beset,  and  made  my  maiden  speech  at 
the  hustings,  wdiich,  it  was  said,  turned  the  contest  in 
his  favor.  A  new  member  is  always  grateful  ;  and  my 
vote  obtained  for  me  a  world  of  thanks,  and  a  pressing 
invitation  to  his  metropolitan  residence. 

'  I  was  now  pursuing  my  way  professedly  to  the 
bar.  I  had  kept  several  terms,  and  had  entered  myself 
as  pupil  of  a  special  pleader,  at  whose  chambers  I 
duly  read  the  newspapers,  peeled  an  orange,  drank  a 
glass  of  soda-water,  and  now  and  then  (but  this  was  a 
rare  event)  attempted  to  scrawl  a  declaration  in  trover 
or  assumpsit,  in  which  my  bad  writing  and  legal  in- 
capacity were  the  only  things  conspicuous.  "  You 
will  never  do  for  special  pleading,  nor  the  common 


VICISSITUDES   IN   A   LAWYER'S   LIFE.  223 

law  bar,"  said  one  of  my  co-pupils ;  "  you  lake  the 
matter  too  leisurely.  Suppose  you  were  to  try  con- 
veyancing .''  or  see  what  figure  you  can  make  in  a 
court  of  equity  ?  "  1  caught  at  this  suggestion.  Six 
months  of  pleading  had  satisfied  me  that  my  "  genius" 
lay  another  way.  In  other  words,  I  heartily  disliked 
my  employment,  and  was  glad  to  escape  from  it  under 

any  show  or  pretence.     Mr.  had    no  objection, 

of  course,  to  my  quitting  his  office  at  the  end  of  six^ 
instead  of  twelve  months,  and  leaving  my  desk  open 
for  another  pupil ;  and  accordingly  I  left  him  without 
ceremony,  and  ti'ansferred  my  person  to  the  chambers 
of  a  celebrated  conveyancer.  This,  from  my  country 
education,  suited  me  better  than  my  previous  tasks.  I 
had  some  glimmering  notion  of  the  law  of  real  prop- 
erty, and  I  was  not  unwilling  to  increase  my  know- 
ledge. The  rapid  diminution  of  my  funds,  too,  began 
to  make  me  think ;  and  after  a  few  struggles  with 
Fearne  and  Preston,  Sugden  and  Sanders,  a  few  sighs 
cast  towards  the  distant  theatres,  and  a  month  of  severe 
but  wholesome  illness,  I  cast  off  die  trammels  of  idle- 
ness, and  sat  down  to  work  in  earnest. 

'  I  had  not  been  here  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  year, 
when  I  one  day  suddenly  met  in  the  street  Sir  Charles 

L ,  our  county  member.     He  had   not  forgotten 

my  election  services,  and  hastened  to  reproach  me  for 
not  having  called  upon  him.  I  pleaded  the  usual 
number  of  excuses  —  protested  ihot  he  was  "very 
kind" — that  he  "  ovei'rated  my  trifling  exertions," 
&c  —  and  concluded  by  accepting  his  invitation  to 
dinner  for  the  following  Saturday.  The  interval  was 
spent  in  ordering  a  new  and  fashionable  dress,  and  in 


224  VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE. 

getting  up,  for  conversation,  some  of  the  ordinary 
topics  for  discourse  —  the  last  poem  or  novel ;  but 
when  the  hour  arrived,  and  I  entered  the  member's 
spacious  mansion,  and  heard  my  name  go  sounding 
up  the  marble  staircase,  I  forgot  all  my  late  conversa- 
tional acquisitions,  my  new  dress,  and  even  the  applause 
that  followed  my  last  speech  at  the  club,  and  stumbled 
into  the  drawing-room  with  a  dizzy  head  and  almost 
trembling  steps.  The  reception  which  Sir  Charles 
gave  me,  however,  speedily  reassured  me.  He  was 
a  well-bred,  polite  man,  and,  it  may  be,  was  a  little 
pleased  at  the  homage  which  I  thus  involuntarily  paid 
to  his  station.  He  introduced  me  to  his  wife  ;  to  his 
son  (an  only  child,  whom  Nature  seemed  to  have 
constructed  for  the  sole  purpose  of  hanging  one  of 
Stultz's  or  Weston's  suits  upon)  ;  and  finally  to  a  poor 
relation  of  the  family,  whom  the  death  of  both  parents, 
and  her  own  utter  indigence,  had  cast  upon  the  mem- 
ber's charity.     Mary   S was,  when  I  first  knew 

her,  about  nineteen  years  of  age.  I  remember  her  as 
though  it  were  but  yesterday.  She  had  not  that  beauty 
without  fault,  either  in  face  or  figure,  nor  that  romantic 
melancholy  expression,  which  novelists  delight  to  ex- 
patiate on ;  but  she  had  a  pleasing  and  intelligent 
countenance,  a  little  dashed  by  sorrow,  but  not  injured 
—  an  unaffected  manner  —  and  a  voice  more  musical 
than  any  sound  I  have  ever  heard.     It  was  to  me 

"  More  tuneable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear ; " 

'twas  sweeter  than  "  the  sweet  South  ; "  richer  than 
Juliet's  voice;  softer  than  Ariel's  song;  and  —  I  was 
never  weary  of  listening  to  it  1 


VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE.  225 

*  Being  both  persons  of  small  importance  (for  I  was 

no  longer  a  freeholder  of  shire.)  Mary  and  I  were 

generally  left  together  to  amuse  ourselves  whenever  I 
visited  Sir  Charles's  house.  I  had  a  general  invitation 
there,  for  which  I  was,  I  believe,  partly  indebted  to 
some  musical  talent  that  I  possessed,  but  which  I 
should  have  neglected,  had  not  "  attractive  metal " 
drawn  me  thither  with  a  power  that  I  could  not  resist. 
That  being  the  case,  I  became  a  visitor,  sometimes  at 

the  evening  parties  of  Lady  L ,  and  always  in  the 

mornings  ;  for  then  the  masters  of  the  mansion  were 
usually  absent,  and  their  protegee  was  left  to  the  soli- 
tude of  her  thoughts.  The  consequences  of  this 
intimacy  may  easily  be  foreseen.  I  fell  in  love  with 
the  excellent  Mary,  who  returned  my  affection,  but  at 
the  same  time  resolutely  refused  to  accept  my  hand, 
and  entail  poverty  on  us  both.  I  proposed  to  ask  the 
consent  of  Sir  Charles.  She  dissuaded  me,  however, 
from  this ;  assuring  me  that  he  would  reject  me,  — 
professedly  upon  some  plea  of  family  pride,  but  in 
reality  to  save  himself  from  the  necessity  of  aiding 
our  slender  means,  as  well  as  to  preserve  for  his  wife 
a  cheap  and  useful  companion.  For  the  condhion  of 
Mary  was  not  that  of  a  sinecurist.     She  was  the  chief 

secretary  of  the  house  ;  the  writer  of  all  Lady  L 's 

letters ;  the  copyist,  and  often  the  corrector,  of  Sir 
Charles's  speeches ;  the  milliner  and  dress-maker  of 
her  lady  cousin,  sometimes  on  ordinary,  and  always 
on  extraordinary  occasions.  She  filled,  in  short,  one 
of  those  thankless,  nameless  offices,  where  the  ties  of 
blood  are  admitted  solely  for  a  sordid  purpose — where 
the  victim  has  to  endure,  uncomplainingly,  (or  starve  I) 

VOL.  I.  15 


226  VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE. 

all  that  the  proud  will  sometimes  dare  to  inflict  — 
where  all  the  labors  and  hardships  of  servitude  are 
undergone,  without  even  the  wages  of  a  menial.  In 
these  cases,  there  is  but  too  often  no  mercy  on  the  one 
hand,  and  no  spirit  of  resistance  on  the  other.  The 
first  act  of  reluctant  charity  justifies  every  species 
of  after-tyranny.  The  value  of  the  original  benevo- 
lence is  exacted  to  the  uttermost  farthing  —  no  abate- 
ment, no  relenting.  "  Do  you  remember  who  it  was 
that  took  you  in  ?  and  fed  you  ?  and,  «Slc."  — 

"  Oh  !  hither  let  soft  Charity  repair  !  " 

Let  her  repair  to  such  melancholy  places,  and  soften 
the  ungenerous  heart,  and  sweeten,  with  her  smiles, 
the  bitter,  bitter  bread  of  dependence  ! 

'  We  married.  The  consent  of  Mary's  "  protectors  " 
had  been  asked,  and  immediately  refused  ;  and  upon 
this,  I  tried  repeatedly  to  induce  her  to  fly  with  me,  but 
in  vain.  At  last  our  situation  made  us  desperate,  and 
some  prospect  of  professional  success  opening  at  the 
time,  I  wrung  from  her  a  slow  consent  to  —  elope. 
We  fled,  and  were,  as  may  be  imagined,  never  pur- 
sued. The  consequences  of  this  step,  however,  were, 
that  my  wife  was  cast  off",  and  I  discountenanced.  But 
I  nevertheless  plodded  steadily  on  my  way ;  never 
relaxing,  never  forgetting  that  on  my  success  depended 
the  comforts,  nay  the  existence,  of  one  who  was  dearer 
to  me  than  myself.  By  the  time  I  had  arrived  at  the 
bar,  and  was  qualified  to  practise  "  in  court,"  we  had 
one  child  born  to  us  —  a  girl.  It  was  the  only  one  we 
ever  had,  and  we  loved  it  in  proportion.  No  one  can 
tell  how  entire  and  unselfish  our  love  was.     Men  may 


VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER's    LIFE.  227 

imagine  and  speculate  on  other  things ;  but  this  is 
beyond  all  guess,  all  divining.  It  is,  beyond  compari- 
son, the  most  painful,  the  most  powerful,  and  mysterious 
sympathy  that  ever  warmed  the  human  heart.  Let 
no  one  talk  of  it,  who  has  not  felt  the  care  and  anxiety 
which  beset  a  parent's  mmd  :  — 

"  He  talks  to  me  who  —  never  had  a  child." 

(How  wise  is  Shakspere  in  this,  as  in  all  other  things !) 
The  single  man  knows  no  more  of  what  we  endure  for 
the  child  we  love,  than  the  blind  or  deaf  know  of  sound 
or  color :  his  idea  is  a  guess  altogether,  unfounded  or 
remote  from  reality. 

'  I  forgot  how  long  it  was  that  we  continued  under 

the  ban  of  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  L 's  displeasure  ; 

but  I  recollect  that  the  interdiction  was  taken  off  at  the 
request  of  a  good-natured  visitor  of  their  house,  to 
whom  I  had  once  (for  I  used  to  carve  occasionally 
there)  accidentally  given  the  prime  slice  from  a  haunch 
of  venison.  He  recollected  this  with  gratitude,  and 
was  not  easy  till  we  were  restored  to  favor.  After 
some  discussion,  some  show  of  resentment,  and  an 
intimation  that  we  were  to  "expect  nothing,"  except 

the  countenance  of  the  family.  Lady  L signified 

that  she  should  "  no  longer  object  to  receive  Mr.  and 

Mrs.  ."     Her  willingness   to  be   reconciled  was 

communicated  to  us ;  and  we  once  more  walked  up 

the  marble  staircase  of  the  L 's,  heard  our  names 

thundered  out  by  powdered  lacqueys,  and  once  more 
underwent 

"  The  proud  man's  contumely," 

and  all  the  ungracious  and  worthless  favors  which  the 


228  VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYEr's    LIFE. 

poor  but  too  frequently  submit  to  receive  from  "  the 
great."  It  would  be  of  little  use  to  recount,  one  after 
one,  the  numberless  slights  and  stinging  condescen- 
sions which  were  showered  upon  our  bare  "unsheltered 
heads."  I  myself  would  have  fled  into  the  forest,  or 
the  poor-house,  to  avoid  them  :  but  we  had  —  a  child  ! 
and  for  her  dear  and  tender  sake,  my  poor  Mary  en- 
treated that  I  would  bear  up  against  ill  fortune  a  little 
longer. 

'Accordingly,  a  "  little  longer,"  and  "  a  little  longer," 
we  went  on  ;  our  situation  never  amending.  Custom, 
which  reconciles  us  to  all  other  things,  never  renders 
caprice  or  tyranny  the  less  difficult  to  be  borne.  We 
endured,  more  than  shall  be  told,  and  we  felt  that  we 
were  descending,  with  swift  and  certain  steps,  from 
one  stage  of  discomfort  to  another,  and  with  the  pros- 
pect of  inevitable  poverty  full  in  our  view.  First, 
trifling  delicacies  were  abandoned,  then  the  finer  cloth- 
ing common  to  our  condition  ;  then  the  solid  comforts 
of  life,  meat,  tea,  firing,  &c.  passed  out  of  our  reach. 
Our  child  suffered  last :  for  we  were  daily  guilty  of 
little  pious  frauds  towards  her,  to  conceal  from  her  the 
absolute  poverty  of  our  lot. 

*  During  all  this  period,  I  was  the  visitor  (on  no 
intimate  footing,  however,  for  I  could  not  return  the 
substantial  civilities  offered  me)  at  gentlemen's  tables. 
I  dined  off"  plate  and  china,  spread  with  all  the  delica- 
cies of  the  seasons,  when  I  had  not  a  meal  at  home. 
On  these  occasions,  I  have  been  compelled  to  restrain 
myself  (to  an  extent  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  credit), 
in  order  to  conceal  from  the  persons  present  the  vora- 
cious hunger  that  was  devouring  me.    I  have  abstracted 


VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE.  229 

food  (from  the  share,  however,  allotted  to  myself)  — 
bread,  cake,  or  other  substantial  edibles — to  carry 
home  for  the  next  day's  sustenance.  In  the  course  of 
time,  this  foraging  was  calculated  upon  between  us; 
and  my  wife  would  see  me  depart  almost  with  pleasure 
upon  one  of  these  expeditions,  knowing  that  I  should 
reserve  for  our  domestic  necessities  a  portion  of  the 
superfluities  of  which  I  was  expected  to  partake.  I 
have  heard  of  a  wealthy  miser  doing  this  to  a  great 
extent.  We,  however,  had  a  better  excuse  than  he. 
He  abstracted  what  belonged  to  others ;  whereas  I 
pilfered  only  from  myself. 

*  But  I  am  writing  confusedly,  and  without  order.  I 
should  have  mentioned  that  my  funds  were,  for  some 
time,  sufficient  to  furnish  us  with  common  comforts, 
and  even  to  appear  suitably  to  our  station.  Our  honey- 
moon did  not  wane  and  disappear  so  very  rapidly  in 
the  chill  atmosphere  of  poverty,  as  to  call  for  that  com- 
miseration which  a  sudden  accident  alone  excites.  We 
were  exposed  in  the  end,  indeed,  to  the  rigorous 
seasons.  We  had  our  fill  of  calamity.  But  it  de- 
scended upon  us,  drop  after  drop,  like  the  icy  dew  that 
falls  "  upon  the  earth  beneath."  We  retired  from  our 
places  gradually,  and  left  our  acquaintances  an  oppor- 
tunity (and  perhaps  an  excuse),  for  discovering  and 
attaching  themselves  to  other  friends.  The  common 
intercourse  and  advantages  of  the  world  are  not  to  be 
had  for  nothing  :  we  must  pay  for  them  with  other 
things.  We  must  return  favors  for  benefits,  good 
humor  for  vivacity,  nay,  almost  meal  for  meal ; 
otherwise,  we  shrink  out  of  the  circle  of  society  and 
our  place    is   supplied   by  fresh  comers.      We   were 


230  VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER's    LIFE. 

willing  to  do  all  that  could  be  done  in  this  interchange, 
but  we  found  that  money  failed  us  at  last,  and  with 
money  good  spirits  also  vanished  :  we  were,  there- 
fore, fairly  dismissed.  I  made,  indeed,  a  few  efforts  to 
recover  myself.  A  sudden  influx  of  business  gave  a 
temporary  color  to 'our  fate,  but  it  did  not  last  long 
enough,  nor  was  it  of  sufficient  amount,  to  give  to  our 
prosperity  even  the  appearance  of  stability.     We  fell 

"  In  many  an  airj'^  wheel," 

deeper  and  deeper  still,  till  we  touched  the  lowest  level 
of  our  destiny. 

'  But  let  me  return,  for  a  short  space,  to  our  child. 
We  had,  as  I  have  said,  one  child  —  one  only.  To 
give  her  the  appearance  of  respectability,  to  afford  her 
the  wholesome,  and  sometimes  delicate  food,  which 
her  youth  and  infirm  health  required,  was  the  struggle 
of  every  day.  We  ourselves  fared  hardly,  and  were 
content.  My  own  expenses  were  trivial :  those  of  my 
wife  were  less.  But  even  rent  and  the  coarsest  cloth- 
ing are  fearful  things  for  those  whose  income  is  utterly 
precarious.  Sometimes  we  had  nothing  —  not  a  shil- 
ling, not  a  solitary  farthing ;  and  then  we  were  driven  to 
borrow  trifling  sums  by  depositing  the  few  poor  trinkets 
of  my  wife,  some  books  that  were  seldom  in  use,  or  a 
portion  of  our  clothes,  with  the  pawnbroker.  These 
sometimes  remained  unredeemed  for  months.  At  such 
times  our  distresses  have  been  great  indeed.  I  have 
sought  and  petitioned  for  employment  of  any  sort,  and 
my  wife  has  shed  tears  of  joy  at  having  the  commonest 
labor  offered  to  her.  It  produced  bread  !  I  should 
cause  the  visages  of  some  of  my  bar  acquaintance  to 


VICISSITUDES    m    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE.  231 

grow  doubly  supercilious  were  I  to  enumerate  the  shifts 
and  projects  that  I  have  been  reduced  to,  to  obtain  a 
shilling  or  two  for  the  next  morning's  meal.  But  what 
will  not  the  father  and  the  husband  do !  It  may  be 
well  enough  for  the  single  man  to  go  to  his  bed  and 
sleep,  careless  of  the  next  day's  fortune  ;  but  he  who 
has  creatures  whom  he  loves  dependent  on  him,  must 
be  busy,  and  anxious,  and  provident.  I  have  (thank 
God)  never  yet  lain  down  at  night  without  knowing 
that  my  wife  and  child  would  the  next  morning  have 
bread  before  them  —  sometimes,  indeed,  scanty  fare, 
but  always  something.  What  have  I  undergone,  more 
than  once,  to  procure  this,  shall  remain  locked  in  my 
own  heart.  1  have  never  provoked  the  generosity  of 
my  professional  brethren,  nor  the  contempt  or  compas- 
sion of  strangers  by  an  open  exposure  of  my  wants  : 
for  I  had  a  character  and  station  to  preserve  by  day, 
on  which  all  the  hope  that  was  left  depended.  But 
secretly,  and  by  night,  and  where  I  was  unknown,  I 
have  shrunk  from  nothing.  The  labor  of  the  porter, 
the  hack  writer's  midnight  toil,  the  work  of  the  com- 
mon copyist,  BEGGARY,  have  all  been  familiar  to  me. 
I  look  back  on  these  occupations  without  shame  or 
regret,  and,  indeed,  at  times,  when  my  pulse  of  pride 
beats  —  as  it  will  beat  feebly  even  now  —  I  recur  to 
some  of  them  with  a  smile. 

*  In  our  sunny  seasons  we  had  one  apparent  luxury 
—  music.  It  was  in  truth  a  great  enjoyment ;  although 
the  real  object  of  its  introduction  among  us  (to  whom 
luxury  of  any  sort  was  necessarily  a  stranger)  was  that 
our  child,  who  inherited  her  mother's  sweet  voice, 
should  find  it  a  means  of  livelihood.     When  we  grew 


232  VICISSITTJDES    IN   A    LAWYEu's    LIFE. 

much  poorer  than  usual,  our  little  borrowed  piano-forte 
was  dismissed ;  but,  in  other  times  we  struggled  hard  to 
keep  it  for  our  daughter's  sake.  I  remember  still  our 
evening  concerts,  my  flute  or  voice  accompanying  her 
instrument,  and  our  sole  dear  auditor  standing  beside  us 
with  glistening  eyes.  We  almost  forgot  our  poverty, 
and  turned  aside  from  the  dark  face  of  futurity,  to 
listen  to  gentle  airs  and  solemn  movements.  We 
wandered  with  Handel,  "  by  hedgerow  elms  on  hil- 
locks green,"  —  with  Kent,  and  Boyce,  and  Purcell. 
Haydn  and  Beethoven  were  our  friends  ;  the  learning 
of  Sebastian  Bach  was  familiar  to  us  ;  the  divine  mel- 
odies of  Mozart  were  our  perpetual  delight. 

'  Music,  however,  could  afl^ord  no  help,  farther  than 
to  enable  us  occasionally  to  forget  misfortune.  It  did 
not  purchase  for  us  bread  or  meat,  nor  revive  my  coat 
of  rustic  black,  which  the  malice  of  several  winters 
and  of  as  many  summers  had  conspired  to  injure. 
My  wife's  clothes  faded,  while  she  hearkened  to  har- 
monies that  were  ever  fresh.  In  a  word  our  miserable 
wardrobe  became  so  flagrantly  bare,  that  our  "  friends  " 
at  L house  announced  the  fact  to  us  in  unmiti- 
gated terms,  and  desired  that,  unless  it  could  be 
renewed,  we  might  straight  become  better  strangers. 
"  We  will  leave  them,  my  dear  Mary,"  said  I,  "  to 
their  poor  pride.  They  are  lower  than  we  are,  after 
all."  She  sighed  and  made  no  answer ;  for  she  saw, 
notwithstanding  all  her  humility,  that  we  could  never 
return  there  again.     We  never  did  return  ! 

'  One  of  the  most  painful  and  irksome  things  to  my- 
self was  the  necessity  of  appearing  "  in  Court  "  during 
the  period  of   our  extreme  poverty.     It    is  supposed 


VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYEE's    LIFE.  233 

necessary,  with  what  reason  I  know  not,  that  the  bar- 
risters should  appear  in  Court  at  all  events,  whether 
allured  there  by  business  or  not.  In  compliance  with 
this  custom  I  have  sate  out  many  a  weary  morning, 
with  my  blue  bag  before  me,  (its  sole  ballast  a  quire  or 
two  of  paper,  or  an  old  volume  of  reports,)  some- 
times listening  to  arguments  on  matters  of  no  interest, 
but  generally  meditating  on  my  own  mournful  pros- 
pects, and  forming  hundreds  of  projects  to  retrieve 
our  fallen  fortunes.  How  little  have  the  frequenters  of 
the  Court  of  Chancery  imagined  that,  under  the  im- 
posing though  grotesque  dress  of  "the  bar,"  one  man 
has  sat  there  as  poor  and  friendless  as  I  have  been. 
There  is  a  sort  of  equality  in  the  costume  and  in  the 
rank  which  rejects  the  idea  of  any  great  diversity  of 
condition.  Yet  have  I  sate  there  more  than  once, 
utterly  pennyless,  whilst  Mr.  Romilly  or  Mr.  Bell,  Mr. 
Hart  or  Mr.  Leach,  &c.  have  been  "  winning  golden 
opinions  from  all  sorts  of  men."  At  these  times  I 
have  sometimes  thought  that,  had  I  fair  opportunhies,  I 
might  have  taken  my  stand  by  the  side  of  those  cele- 
brated advocates ;  but,  alas !  when  some  casual 
opportunity  came,  I  found  that  I  was  tongue-tied,  and 
that  all  the  faculties  that  I  gave  myself  credit  for  were 
either  not  there,  or  were  in  a  moment  dispersed  and 
put  to  flight.  Self-possession,  confidence  in  one's 
own  strength,  is  scarcely  a  secondary  requisite  at  the 
bar.  The  learning  and  even  ingenuity  of  man  are 
nothing  without  it.     The  course  of  the  advocate  should 

ever  be 

"  As  confident  as  is  the  falcon's  flight," 

if  he  hopes  to  conquer.     For  myself,  I  never  could 


234  VICISSITITDES    IN    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE. 

attain  this  self-possession.  I  have  dreamed,  indeed,  of 
Bacon  and  Coke,  and  Hardwicke  and  Holt,  and  Thur- 
low  and  Mansfield,  ("  silver-tongued  Murray,")  and  all 
who  have  made  a  name,  and  I  have  vowed  that  I  too 
would  win  the  same  airy  and  substantial  glory  that  had 
encircled  the  heads  of  famous  lawyers.  I  have  read, 
and  read,  and  written,  early  and  late,  morning,  noon, 
and  night ;  I  have  compiled  and  digested,  speculated 
and  invented.  All  branches  of  law,  all  sorts  of  litera- 
ture have  I  tried  :  but  my  writings  accumulated,  my 
information  increased  —  in  vain  !  My  labors  were 
fruitless.  My  piles  of  manuscripts  were  destined  only 
to  feed  the  worm  or  the  moth,  or  to  afford  a  habitation 
to  the  spider. 

'  I  know  not  why  I  should  pursue  farther  this  down- 
ward path.  It  would  be  easy  to  go  on  recounting  fact 
after  fact,  feeling  after  feeling, 

"  Facilis  descensus  Averni." 

*  But,  having  thus  far  traced  the  narrative  of  my 
calamities,  I  am  content  to  stop.  If  any  one  should 
ever  read  over  what  is  written,  he  will  probably  find  it 
even  now  sufficiently  irksome.  There  is  too  little  of 
incident  or  adventure  to  stir  up  the  blood,  to  make 
"  the  hair  to  stand  on  end,"  to  force  from  the  eyes  of 
readers  deluges  of  tears.  Mine,  is  not  an  "  eventful 
history."  It  is  a  melancholy  one  ;  and,  I  fear  too, 
that  it  is  not  a  solitary  instance  of  misplaced  ambition. 
But  it  is  dull,  and  dark,  and  uniform.  It  is  without  a 
spot  of  pleasantness :  sterile  in  all  its  aspects,  unless, 
indeed,  it  prove  (and  it  may  well  prove)  a  timely  and 


VICISSITTJDES    IN   A   LAWYEr's   LIFE.  235 

valuable  warning  for  those  who  have  yet  the  race  of 
life  to  run.  That  it  may  be  useful  in  this  sort,  I  will 
complete  it.  I  will  not,  by  publishing  it  now,  encounter 
the  jeers  or  the  sympathy  of  critics;  but  I  will  leave  it 
for  the  edification  of  those  who  come  after  me.  It  will 
be  of  little  moment  then  what  becomes  of  my  poor 
memoirs.  Wit,  rancor,  praise,  compassion,  —  what 
will  they  avail  to  the  ear  that  is  deaf  ?  to  the  eye  that 
is  blind  ?  to  the  sense  —  the  intellect  that  has  soared, 
or  sunk,  or  fled  —  whither  ? 

' .  .  .  A  few  more  sentences,  and  I  have  done. 
They  comprehend,  notwithstanding  all  I  have  already 
said,  the  bitter  sum  of  my  existence.  But  I  cannot 
linger  over  them.  I  cannot,  like  the  beggar  by  the 
way-side,  exhibit  and  grow  garrulous  over  my  holier 
sorrows.  Let  it  be  sufficient  to  say  that  I  have  fol- 
lowed my  wife  and  my  only  child  to  their  graves,  and 
that  I  am  now  utterly —  alone!  My  misery  needs  no 
exaggeration,  and  it  asks  for  no  sympathy.  I  go  on, 
as  I  have  always  done,  struggling  and  toiling  to-day 
for  the  food  of  to-morrow.  But  I  no  longer  feel  ap- 
prehensive of  the  future.  It  is  even  some  alleviation 
when  my  own  insignificant  personal  wants  obtrude 
upon  me,  and  call  me  away  for  a  moment  from  sub- 
stantial grief.  It  was  with  this  view,  with  this  hope, 
that  I  sate  down  to  pen  this  story  of  my  disappoint- 
ments ;  and,  in  truth,  the  task  has  now  and  then 
beguiled  me  —  not  into  forgetfulness,  indeed  —  but  it 
has  mingled  with  the  almost  intolerable  pain  of  the 
present,  recollections  of  the  comparatively  trivial  sor- 
rows of  the  past.  I  have  all  my  life  been  pursuing 
a    phantom  —  professional    success.      I    have    been 


236  VICISSITUDES    IN    A    LAWYER'S    LIFE. 

"  chasing  the  rainbow  "  for  fifty  years.  I  have  failed 
in  every  undertaking.  I  have  striven  my  best !  have 
been  honest,  industrious,  and  constant  to  my  calling, 
yet  nothing  has  prospered  with  me.  I  do  not  seek  to 
inquire  into  the  reasons  for  all  this;  but  it  may  be 
worth  the  while  of  another  person  to  do  so.  The 
causes  of  success  in  life  deserve  a  minute  scrutiny. 
Whether  they  be  owing  to  accident,  to  impudence,  to 
genius,  to  perseverance,  it  will  be  well  to  know.  It 
will  then  be  seen  why  my  learning  has  been  useless, 
my  honesty  of  no  account,  my  daily,  nightly,  unceas- 
ing toil  unavailing.  Let  me  not  be  understood  as 
being  now  querulous  or  indignant.  The  time  for  those 
feelings  has  passed  away.  I  have  no  motives  now  to 
desire  rank  or  professional  success.  I  would  not  pos- 
sess them  if  I  could.' 

Such  is  the  counsellor's  story.  I  have  nothing  to 
add  to  it,  except  that  we  heard  he  had  thriven  in  his 
business  somewhat  better  latterly.  His  health,  how- 
ever, (his  clerk  said,)  became  very  indifferent ;  he  did 
not  attend  Court  so  regularly  as  usual,  and  never 
walked  out  as  formerly,  except  to  visit  a  little  church- 
yard in  the  suburbs  of  London,  where  his  wife  and 
child  lay  buried.  To  this  place  he  went  regularly 
every  Saturday  evening,  about  sunset,  and  sometimes, 
when  his  spirits  were  more  than  usually  depressed,  he 
would  wander  there  every  afternoon  for  a  week  or  a 
fortnight  successively. 

1833. 


THE    MAN-HUNTER. 


It  can  scarcely  be  more  than  eighteen  months  ago, 
that  two  Englishmen  met  together  unexpectedly  at  the 
little  town  or  city  of  Dessau.  The  elder  was  a  grave 
person,  in  no  way  remarkable  ;  but  the  younger  forced 
observation  upon  him.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  bony 
figure,  presenting  the  relics  of  a  formidable  man,  but 
seemingly  worn  with  travel  and  oppressed  by  weighty 
thoughts.  He  must  once  have  been  handsome  ;  and 
he  was  even  now  imposing.  But  poverty  and  toil  are 
sad  enemies  to  human  beauty;  and  he  had  endured 
both.  Nevertheless  the  black  and  ragged  elf-locks 
which  fell  about  his  face  could  not  quite  conceal  its 
noble  proportions  ;  and,  although  his  cheek  was  ghastly 
and  macerated,  (perhaps  by  famine,)  there  was  a 
wild,  deep-seated  splendor  glowing  in  his  eye,  such  as 
we  are  apt  to  ascribe  to  the  poet  when  his  frenzy  is 
full  upon  him,  or  to  the  madman  when  he  dreams  of 
vengeance. 

The  usual  salutations  of  friends  passed  between 
them,  and  they  conversed  for  a  short  time  on  indifferent 
subjects ;  the  elder,  as  he  spoke,  scrutinizing  the  con- 
dition  of   his  acquaintance,   and   the   other   glancing 


238  THE    MAN-HUNTER. 

about  from  time  to  time,  with  restless,  watchful  eyes, 
as  though  he  feared  some  one  might  escape  his  obser- 
vation, or  else  might  detect  himself.  The  name  of  the 
elder  of  these  men  was  Denbigh  :  that  of  the  younger 
has  not  reached  me.  We  will  call  him  Gordon.  It 
was  the  curiosity  of  the  first-mentioned  that,  after  a 
reasonable  period,  broke  out  into  inquiry.  (They  were 
just  entering  the  public  room  of  the  Black  Eagle  at 
Dessau.) 

'  But  what  has  brought  you  here  ?  '  said  he.  '  I  left 
you  plodding  at  a  merchant's  desk,  with  barely  the 
means  of  living.  Though  a  friend,  you  would  never 
let  me  please  myself  by  lending  you  money ;  nor 
would  you  be  my  companion  down  the  Rhine,  some 
three  years  ago.  You  professed  to  hate  travelling. 
Yet  I  find  you  here  —  a  traveller  evidently,  with  kw 
comforts.  Come,  be  plain  with  me.  Tell  me — what 
has  brought  you  hither  .''  Or  rather  what  has  withered 
and  wasted  you,  and  made  your  hair  so  grey  ?  You 
are  grown  quite  an  old  man.' 

'  Ay,'  replied  Gordon ;  '  I  am  old,  as  you  say,  old 
enough.  Winter  is  upon  me,  on  my  head,  on  my 
heart ;  both  are  frozen  up.  Do  you  wish  to  know  what 
brought  me  here  ?  Well,  you  have  a  right  to  know; 
and  you  shall  be  told.     You  shall  hear  —  a  tale.' 

*  A  true  one  ? '  inquired  Denbigh,  smilingly. 

*  True  ! '  echoed  the  other  ;  '  ay,  as  true  as  hell,  as 
dark,  as  damnable  —  but  peace,  peace  ! '  said  he, 
checking  himself  for  a  moment,  and  then  proceeding 
in  a  hoarse,  whispering,  vehement  voice  —  '  all  that  in 
time.     We  must  begin  quietly  —  quietly.     Come,  let 


THE    MAN-HUNTER.  239 

US  drink  some  wine,  and  you  shall  see  presently  what 
a  calm  historian  I  am.' 

Wine,  together  with  some  more  solid  refreshments, 
were  accordingly  ordered.  Gordon  did  not  taste  the 
latter,  but  swallowed  a  draught  or  two  of  the  bold 
liquid,  which  seemed  to  still  his  nerves  like  an  opiate. 
He  composed  himself,  and  indeed  appeared  disposed 
to  forget  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  trouble  in  the 
world,  until  the  impatience  of  his  friend  (which  vented 
itself  in  the  shape  of  various  leading  questions)  in- 
duced him  to  summon  up  his  recollections.  He  com- 
pressed his  lips  together  for  a  moment,  and  drew  a 
short,  deep  breath,  through  his  inflated  nostrils ;  but 
otherwise  there  was  no  preface  or  introduction  to  his 
story,  which  commenced  nearly,  if  not  precisely,  in 
the  following  words  :  — 

'  About  three  years  ago,  a  young  girl  was  brought 
to  one  of  those  charitable  institutions  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London,  where-  the  wretched  (the  sinful  and 
the  destitute)  find  refuge  and  consolation.  She  was, 
you  may  believe  me,  beautiful ;  so  beautiful,  so  deli- 
cate, and,  as  1  have  said,  so  young,  that  she  extorted  a 
burst  of  pity  and  admiration  from  people  long  inured 
to  look  upon  calamity. 

'  She  was  attended  by  her  mother  —  a  widow. 
This  woman  differed  from  her  child  ;  ^not  merely  in 
age  or  feature.  She  was,  in  comparison,  masculine  ; 
her  face  was  stern  ;  her  frame  strong  and  enduring ; 
she  looked  as  though  hunger  and  shame  had  been  busy 
with  her  —  as  though  she  had  survived  the  loss  of  all 
things,  and  passed  the  extreme  limits  of  human  woe. 
Once  —  for  I  knew  her  —  she  would  have  disdained  to 


34H)  THE    MAN-HXTNTEH. 

ask  even  for  pity.  Oh  !  what  she  must  have  borne,  in 
body,  in  mind,  before  she  could  have  brought  herself 
to  become  a  suppliant  there  !  Yet  there  she  was  — 
she,  and  her  youngest  born  in  her  hand,  beggars. 
She  presented  her  child  to  the  patronesses  of  the  insti- 
tution ;  and,  with  an  unbroken  voice,  prayed  them  to 
take  her  in  for  refuge. 

'  The  common  questions  were  asked,  the  who,  the 
whence,  the  wherefore,  &c.  Even  something  more 
than  common  curiosity  displayed  itself  in  the  inquiries, 
and  all  was  answered  with  an  unflinching  spirit.  The 
mother's  story  was  sad  enough.  Let  us  hope  that  such 
things  are  rare  in  England.  She  was  the  widow  of  a 
military  man,  an  officer  of  courage  and  conduct,  who 
died  in  battle.  If  we  could  live  upon  laurels,  his 
family  need  not  have  starved.  But  the  laurel  is  a 
poisonous  tree.  It  is  gay  and  shining,  and  undccaying  ; 
but  whoso  tasteth  it,  dies !  No  matter  now.  The 
widow  and  three  children  were  left  almost  without 
money.  The  father  had  indeed  possessed  some  little 
property ;  but  it  consisted  of  bonds,  or  notes,  or  securi- 
ties of  a  transferable  nature ;  and  was  intrusted  (with- 
out receipt  or  acknowledgment)  to  —  a  villain.  The 
depositary  used  it  for  his  own  purposes ;  denied  his 
trust ;  and,  with  the  coldness  of  a  modern  philosopher, 
saw  his  victims  thrust  out  of  doors,  to  starve  !  A  good 
Samaritan  gave  them  bread  and  employment  for  a  few 
weeks ;  but  he  died  suddenly,  and  they  were  again  at 
the  mercy  of  fortune. 

'  It  was  now  that  the  mother  felt  that  her  children 
looked  up  to  her  for  life.  And  she  answered  the  appeal 
as  a  mother  only  can.     She  toiled  to  the  very  utmost 


THE    MAN-HUNTER.  241 

of  her  strength  :  nothing  was  too  much,  nothing  too 
base  or  menial  for  her.  She  worked,  and  watched, 
and  endured  all  things,  from  all  persons ;  and  thus  it 
was  that  she  obtained  coarse  food  for  her  young  ones 
—  sometimes  even  enough  to  satisfy  their  hunger ;  till 
'  at  last  the  eldest  boy  became  useful,  and  began  to  earn 
money  also ;  and  then  they  were  able  almost  daily  to 
taste  —  bread  !  It  is  a  wonder  how  they  lived  —  how 
they  shunned  the  vices  and  squalid  evils  which  beset 
the  poor.  But  they  did  so.  They  withstood  all  temp- 
tations. They  felt  no  envy  nor  hatred  for  the  great 
and  fortunate.  The  sordid  errors  of  their  station  never 
fastened  on  them.  They  grew  up  honest,  liberal- 
minded,  courageous.  They  wanted  not  even  for 
learning,  or  at  least  knowledge.  For,  after  a  time,  a 
few  cheap  books  were  bought  or  borrowed,  and  the 
ambition  which  the  mother  taught  them  to  feel,  served 
the  boys  in  place  of  instructors.  They  read  and 
studied.  After  working  all  day,  (running  on  errands, 
hewing  wood,  and  drawing  water,)  these  children  of  a 
noble  mother  sat  down  to  gather  learning ;  never  dis- 
obeying, never  murmuring  to  do  what  she,  to  whom 
they  owed  all  things,  commanded  them  to  achieve. 
Yet,  little  merit  is  due  to  them.  It  was  she,  the  incom- 
parable mother,  who  did  all ;  saved,  supported,  endured 
all  for  her  children's  sake,  for  her  dead  husband's  sake, 
and  for  the  disinterested  love  of  virtue  ! 

'  I  know  not  what  frightful  crimes  some  progenitor 
might  have  committed,  what  curse  he  might  have 
brought  upon  this  race ;  but,  if  no7ie,  in  the  name  of 
God's  mercy,  why,  (when  they  had  been  steeped  in 
baseness  and  poverty  to  the  lips,)  why  was  a  curse 

VOL,  1.  16 


242  THE    MAN-HUNTER. 

more  horrible  than  all  to  come  upon  them  ?  Poor 
creatures  !  had  they  not  endured  enough  ?  What  is 
the  axe  or  the  gibbet  to  the  daily  never-dying  pain 
which  a  mother  feels  who  sees  her  children  famishing 
away  before  her  ?  Sickness,  cold,  hunger,  the  con- 
tempt of  friends,  the  hate  or  indifference  of  all  the 
world  besides,  the  perpetual  heart-breaking  toil  and 
struggle  to  live  !  to  get  bread,  yet  often  want  it !  Was 
not  all  enough?  I  suppose  not;  for  a  curse  greater 
than  all  fell  upon  them. 

'  A  friend  —  ha,  ha,  ha  !  —  let  me  use  common  words 
—  a  friend  of  the  elder  son,  (who  had,  by  degrees,  risen 
to  be  a  manufacturer's  clerk,)  visited  them  at  their  hum- 
ble abode.  He  was  rich,  he  was,  moreover,  a  specious 
youth,  fair  and  florid — such  as  young  girls  fancy; 
but  as  ;itterly  hard  and  impenetrable  to  every  touch  of 
honor  or  pity,  as  the  stone  we  tread  upon.  He  —  I 
must  make  short  work  of  this  part  of  my  story  —  he 
loved  the  young  sister  of  his  friend,  or  rather  he  sought 
her  with  the  brutal  appetite  of  an  animal.  He  talked, 
and  smiled,  and  flattered  her  —  (she  was  a  weak  thing, 
and  his  mummery  pleased  her) :  he  brought  presents 
to  her  mother,  and,  at  last  ruin  and  shame  upon  herself. 
She  was  so  young  —  not  fifteen  years  of  age  !  But 
this  base  and  hellish  slave  had  no  mercy  on  her  innocent 
youth,  no  respect  for  her  desolate  condition.  He 
ruined  her  —  oh !  there  were  horrid  circumstances  — 
force,  and  fraud,  and  cruelty  of  all  kinds,  that  I  will 
not  touch  upon.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  her  de- 
struction was  achieved,  and  all  her  family  in  his  power. 
The  child,  (herself  now  about  to  be  a  mother,)  medi- 
tated death.     She  was  timid,  however,  and  shrank  from 


THE    MAN-HTTNTER.  243 

the  vague  and  gloomy  terrors  of  the  grave.  So  she 
lived  on,  pale  and  humbled,  uttering  no  complaint,  and 
disclosing  no  disgrace,  until  her  mother  noticed  her 
despondency,  and  reproached  her  for  it.  With  a  trem- 
bling heart  —  trembling  at  she  knew  not  what  —  she 
inquired  solemnly  the  cause  of  all  this  woe.  The  girl 
could  not  stand  those  piercing  looks.  The  mother 
whom  she  had  obeyed,  not  only  with  love  but  in  fear 
also,  commanded  a  disclosure,  and  the  poor  victim 
sunk  on  her  knees  before  her.  She  told  her  sad  story 
with  sobs  and  streaming  eyes,  and  with  her  figure 
abased  to  absolute  prostration.  Her  parent  listened 
(she  would  rather  have  listened  to  her  own  death- 
warrant)  —  looked  ghastly  at  her  for  a  minute,  and 
reproached  her  no  more!  Some  accident  —  some  in- 
termission of  employment,  (I  forget  what,)  made  it 
impossible  to  support  the  poor  fallen  child  with  proper 
care.  This  inability  it  was,  joined  to  a  wish  to  keep  her 
shame  secret,  that  carried  the  mother  and  daughter  to 
the  charitable  place  of  which  I  have  spoken.  And 
there  the  child  was  deposited,  under  a  feigned  name, 
to  undergo  the  pangs  of  child-birth. 

'  But  the  sons  !  Do  you  not  ask,  where  are  they  7 
Ha,  ha  !  I  am  coming  to  that.  They  knew  nothing  — 
suspected  nothing,  till  all  the  mother's  plans  were 
effected ;  and  then  with  a  gloomy  countenance,  and  a 
voice  troubled  to  its  depths  with  many  griefs,  she  told 
them  —  ALL.' 

'  How  did  they  bear  it  ?  What  did  they  say  or  do  }  ' 
inquired  Denbigh,  breaking  silence  for  the  first  time 
since  the  commencement  of  the  story.  Gordon  an- 
swered :  — 


844  THE    MAN-HUNTEK. 

*  Her  communication  was,  at  first,  absolutely  unin- 
telligible. It  was  so  sudden,  and  so  utterly  unsuspected, 
that  it  bore  the  character  of  a  dream  or  a  fable.  They 
stood  bewildered.  But  when  the  truth  —  the  real,  bad, 
terrible  truth  became  plain  —  when  it  was  repeated 
with    more   particulars,   and  made   frightfully  distinct, 

—  the  eldest  son  burst  into  a  rage  of  words.  The 
younger,  a  youth  of  more  concentrated  passions, 
started  up,  opened  his  mouth  as  though  he  would  utter 
some  curse ;  but  instantly  fell  dead  on  the  floor.' 

*  Good  G — d  ! '  interrupted  Denbigh  again,  '  and  did 
he  die } ' 

'  No,'  replied  the  other,  '  he  but  appeared  to  die. 
Did  I  say  "  dead  ?  "  No  j  I  was  wrong.  He  was  not 
irrecoverably  dead.  By  prompt  help  he  was  revived. 
In  the  struggle  between  life  and  death,  blood  burst 
from  his  mouth  and  from  his  nose,  and  he  felt  easier. 
Perhaps  the  oath  which  he,  at  that  moment,  was  pre- 
scribing to  himself —  the  fierce,  implacable,  unalter- 
able determination  which  his  soul  was  forming,  tran- 
quillized his  spirit ;  for  he  awoke  to  apparent  calmness, 
and  expressed  himself  resigned.  But  he  was  not  so 
to    be   satisfied.     Patience  —  resignation  —  forgiveness 

—  these  are  good  words  :  they  are  virtues,  perhaps  ; 
but  they  were  not  his.     He  was  of  a  fiery  spirit ' 

*  Like  yourself,'  said  Denbigh,  tiying  to  smile  away 
the  painful  impression  which  the  story  was  producing 
on  his  mind. 

'  Aye,  like  myself.  Sir,'  was  the  fierce  answer. 
*  He  thought  that  vengeance,  where  punishment  was 
manifestly  due,  was  scarcely  the  shadow  of  a  crime  ; 
and  /  think  so  too.     He  swore,  silently,  but  solemnly, 


THE    MAN-HTJNTER.  245 

(and  invoked  all  Heaven  and  Hell  to  attest  his  oath,) 
that  he  would  thenceforward  have  but  one  object,  one 
ambition  ;  and  this  was  —  revenge  !  He  swore  to 
take  the  blood  of  the  betrayer,  and  —  he  did.' 

'  When  ?  where  ? '  asked  Denbigh,  quickly. 

'  Let  us  take  some  wine,'  said  Gordon ;  '  I  am 
speaking  now,'  continued  he,  after  he  had  drunk,  '  of 
what  must  be.  The  future  is  not  yet  come.  But  as 
sure  as  I  see  you  before  me,  so  surely  do  I  see  the 
consummation  of  this  revenge.  There  is  a  fate  in 
some  things  :  there  is  one  in  this.  Do  you  remember 
the  story  of  the  Spaniard  Aguirra  }  ' 

'  No  ! '  answered  the  other. 

*  Yet,  it  is  well  known  —  it  is  true  —  it  is  memorable, 
and  it  deserves  to  be  remembered ;  for  (except  in  the 
one  instance  of  which  I  now  speak)  it  stands  alone  in 
the  catalogue  of  extraordinary  events.  You  shall  hear 
it  presently,  if  it  be  only  to  rescue,  by  a  parallel  case, 
my  story  from  the  character  of  a  fiction.  At  present, 
let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  sure  as  was  Aguirra's  ven- 
geance, so  sure  shall  be  —  mine  ! ' 

*  Yours  ! '  exclaimed  Denbigh,  *  do  I  hear  aright ! ' 
'  Aye,  open  your  ears  wide.     I  am  the  Revenger  ! 

ikfy  family  it  is  who  owe  Fortune  so  little  —  to  whom 
vengeance  owes  so  much  !  My  mother  and  her  fam- 
ished brood  it  was  of  whose  sufferings,  I  have  spoken, 
and  whose  injuries  I  am  destined  to  revenge.' 

*  But  the  villain  —  }  '  inquired  Denbigh. 

*  You  do  well  to  bring  me  back  to  him.  You  think 
not  that  I  for  a  moment  forget  him.  He  fled  when  he 
knew  —  nay,  before  he  knew  —  when  he  but  surmised 
that  we    had    discovered   his   villany.     He   collected 


S^  THE    MAN-nUNTEE. 

money  together,  and  left  his  country.  But  I  was  soon 
upon  his  track.  I  too  had  gathered  some  hard  earn- 
ings, and  my  brother  more  ;  and  with  these  united, 
I  commenced  a  desperate  pursuit,  I  will  not  weary 
you  by  recounting  the  many  difficulties  of  my  task ; 
how  many  thousand  miles  I  have  journeyed  barefoot, 
with  little  clothing,  with  less  food,  (for  I  was  forced 
to  economize  my  poor  means ;)  how  for  three  years 
I  have  been  generally  a  beggar  for  my  bread,  a  com- 
panion with  the  unsheltered  dog ;  how  I  have  been 
wounded,  robbed,  and  even  once  imprisoned.  That 
fortunately  was  but  for  a  day,  or  it  might  have  over- 
thrown my  plans  of  vengeance.  Thanks  to  the 
furies,  it  did  not;  I  followed  him^ — over  all  coun- 
tries, from  Moscow  to  Madrid,  from  the  Baltic  to  the 
Carpathians.  He  fled  with  a  sense,  with  a  knowledge 
that  I  was  for  ever  on  his  track.  He  slept  trebly 
armed,  locked  in  and  barred  from  all  access.  He  has 
been  known  to  rise  at  night,  and  take  flight  for  a 
distant  land.  But,  with  the  unerring  sense  of  a  blood- 
hound, I  was  always  after  him.  I  was  sure  of  him. 
He  never  escaped  me.  No  disguise,  no  swiftness  of 
journeying,  no  digressions  from  the  ordinary  path,  no 
doubles,  nor  turnings,  nor  common  feints,  such  as  the 
hunted  beast  resorts  to  in  his  despair,  availed  him. 
Wherever  he  was  —  there  was  I !  not  so  soon  perhaps, 
but  quite  as  surely. 

'  Twenty  times  I  have  been  near  meeting  him  alone, 
and  consummating  my  purpose.  But  one  thing  or  other 
perpetually  intervened.  A  casual  blow,  without  the 
certainty  of  its  being  fatal,  would  have  been  nothing. 
He  might  have   recovered  —  he  might  have  lived  to 


THE    MAN-HUNTER.  247 

see  me  proclaimed  a  malefactor,  and  have  borne 
evidence  against  me ;  and  then  he  would  have 
triumphed,  and  not  I.  I  resolved  to  make  surer  work  ; 
to  see  that  he  should  die  ;  and  for  myself,  I  determined 
to  live,  for  some  time  at  least,  in  order  to  enjoy  the 
remembrance  of  having  accomplished  one  deed  of 
justice. 

*  I  said  that  I  would  not  weary  you  with  a  narrative 
of  my  travels  and  a  repetition  of  my  failures.  But 
one  adventure  amongst  many,  occurs  to  me,  somewhat 
differing  from  the  rest,  and  you  shall  hear  it.  One  of 
my  transits  was  across  the  whole  face  of  Europe  ; 
from  an  obscure  town  in  Flanders  to  the  Porte.  I  had 
scarcely  reached  the  Fanar,  (where  I  was  housed  by  a 
Greek,  whom  I  had  served  in  an  accidental  affray,) 
when  I  fell  sick  of  a  fiery  distemper  —  some  plague 
or  fever  begot  in  those  burning  regions,  which  some- 
times destroys  the  native  and  almost  always  the  luck- 
less stranger.  In  my  extremity,  my  kind  hosts  sent 
for  a  physician  —  a  converted  Jew.  He  came  and 
heard  my  ravings,  and  let  the  sickness  deal  with  me 
as  it  chose.  Some  words,  however,  which  I  threw  out 
in  my  delirium  (at  his  second  visit)  excited  his  curi- 
osity ;  and  coming,  as  they  did,  from  a  Frank,  he  was 
induced  to  communicate  them  to  an  Englishman  who 
lodged  in  his  house.  This  Englishman  was  —  the 
fiend,  the  fugitive,  whom  I  had  chased  so  long  in  vain. 
A  few  words  and  a  lump  of  gold  concluded  a  bargain;, 
and  the  next  time  the  scowling  Issachar  came  to  my 
bedside,  he  ordered  a  cup  of  coffee  for  his  patient.  I 
had  at  that  time  recovered  my  senses,  and  became 
suddenly  and  sensitively  awake  to  every  thing  about 


248  THE    MAN-HUNTER. 

me.  I  saw  the  renegade  take  a  powder  from  his  vest ; 
and,  after  lookmg  round  to  see  that  all  was  clear,  put 
it,  with  a  peculiar  look,  into  the  cup.  "  It  is  poison,^' 
I  said  to  myself;  and  by  a  sudden  effort  (while  the 
Israelite's  back  was  turned,)  I  forced  myself  upwards, 
and  sate,  like  a  corpse  revived,  awaiting  his  attention. 
After  he  had  drugged  the  draught,  he  turned  round 
suddenly  and  beheld  me.  There  I  was,  unable  to 
speak  indeed,  but  ghastly  and  as  white  as  stone, 
threatening  and  grinning,  and  chattering  unintelligible 
sounds.  He  was  staggered ;  but  recovering  himself 
with  a  smile,  he  tendered  the  detestable  potion.  I  had 
just  strength  enough  to  dash  it  out  of  his  hand,  and 
sank  on  the  bed  exhausted.  When  I  recovered  I 
found  myself  alone ;  nor  did  I  ever  again  see  my 
physician. 

'  I  do  not  complain  of  this.  Life  for  life  is  an  equal 
stake.  I  knew  the  game  which  I  was  playing.  Death 
for  one  or  both  of  us  —  that  was  certain.  Quiet  for 
him,  at  all  events,  (upon  the  earth  or  within  it) ;  per- 
haps revenge  for  me.  I  was  not  angry  at  this  attempt 
on  my  life.  I  liked  it  better,  in  truth,  than  hunting  day 
after  day,  week  after  week,  a  flying,  timorous,  unre- 
sisting wretch.  The  opposition  —  the  determination  he 
evinced  to  strike  again  spurred  me  on.  It  afforded  a 
relief  to  my  perpetual  disappointment :  it  chequered  the 
miserable  monotony  of  my  life.  Sometimes  I  had 
almost  felt  compassion  for  my  harassed  and  terrified 
enemy,  and  generally  contempt.  But  now  — an  adder 
was  before  me.  It  rose  up,  and  strove  to  use  its  fangs, 
and  was  no  longer  to  be  trod  on  without  peril.  These 
thoughts,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  contributed  to  my 


THE    MAN-HITNTER.  249 

recovery.  I  grew  tranquil  and  well  apace  ;  and  when 
I  was  fit  to  travel,  I  found  that  my  foe  had  quitted  pre- 
cipitately the  banks  of  the  Bosphorus. 

'I  had  little  difficulty  in  learning  his  route;  for  my 
Greek  had  his  national  subtilty,  and  did  not  spare  money 
to  set  me  on  the  track.  The  Jew  doctor  (he  had  a  second 
bribe)  said  that  he  had  overheard  my  victim  bargaining 
with  a  Tartar  courier  to  conduct  him  to  Vienna.  Upon 
this  hint,  I  set  off  on  my  dreary  journey  through  the 
Ottoman  empire  and  its  huge  provinces  —  Roumelia, 
Wallachia,  Transylvania.  I  traversed  the  great  uncul- 
tivated plains  of  Turkey  ;  I  crossed  the  Balkan  and  the 
muddy  Danube ;  escaped  the  quarantine  of  the  Cra- 
paks  ;  and  finally  dismounted  at  Vienna,  just  as  a  car- 
riage was  heard  thundering  along  the  Presburg  road, 
containing  a  traveller  to  whom  haste  was  evidently  of 
the  last  importance.  'Twas  he  !  I  saw  him  ;  and  he 
saw  me.  He  saw  me  and  knew  in  a  moment  that  all 
his  toilsome  journey  was  once  more  in  vain.  I  saw  him 
grow  pale  before  me,  and  I  triumphed.  Ha  !  ha  !  — 
that  night  I  was  joyful.  late,  and  drank,  and  dreamt, 
as  though  I  had  no  care  or  injury  upon  me.  The  next 
morning  I  looked  to  see  that  my  dagger  was  sharp,  and 
my  pistols  primed,  and  set  out  on  foot  to  decoy  my  foe 
into  a  quiet  place,  fit  for  the  completion  of  my  purpose. 
But  I  failed,  as  I  had  failed  often  before.  I  beset  him, 
I  tried  to  surprise  him ;  I  kept  him  in  incessant  alarm  ; 
but  the  end  was  still  the  same.  He  was  still  destined  to 
escape  me,  and  I  to  remain  his  pursuer. 

'  How  it  was  that  he  retained  his  senses,  that  he  had 
still  spring  of  mind  to  fly,  and  hope  to  escape  pursuit, 
is  a  mystery  to  me.     I  have  often  wondered  that  he 


250  THE    MAN-HFNTER. 

did  not  bare  his  throat  before  me,  and  end  his  misery  ; 
as  those  who  grow  dizzy  on  a  precipice,  cast  themselves 
from  it,  and  find  refuge  from  their  intolerable  fears  — 
in  death.  But  no ;  his  love  of  life,  his  fear  (caused  by 
that  love  of  life)  were  so  great,  so  insuperable,  that  they 
never  seemed  capable,  as  in  ordinary  cases,  of  sinking 
into  indifference  or  despair.  He  had  no  moral,  no 
intellectual  qualities  ;  no  courage  of  any  sort.  Yet  by 
his /ear  alone,  he  became  at  times  absolutely  terrific. 
His  struggles,  his  holding  on  to  life,  (when  nothing  was 
left  worth  living  for,)  his  sleepless,  ceaseless  activity  in 
flight  assumed  a  serious,  and  even  awful  character. 
He  pursued  his  purpose  as  steadily  and  as  unflinchingly 
as  I  pursued  mine.  Terror  never  stopped  him  ;  hope 
never  forsook  him.  From  one  end  of  the  world  to  the 
other  he  fled  —  backwards  and  forwards,  this  way  and 
that  —  he  fled,  and  fled;  not  dropping  from  apprehen- 
sion, like  the  dove  or  the  wren  ;  but  still  keeping  on 
his  way  like  some  fierce  bird  of  prey,  who,  driven 
from  one  region,  will  still  seek  another,  and  another, 
and  fight  it  out  to  the  last  extremity.  So  frightful  have 
been  his  struggles,  so  wild  and  fantastic  the  character 
of  his  fears,  that  once  or  twice,  I — (his  destroyer)  — 
I,  who  was  watching  him  with  an  ever-deadly  purpose, 
became  absolutely  daunted  and  oppressed.  I  resumed 
my  strength,  however,  speedily,  as  you  will  suppose ; 
for  what  his  fear  was  to  him,  hate  or  revenge  was  to 
me  —  the  sole  stirring  principle  of  life.  Oh  !  this 
accursed  wretch  !  does  he  ever  dream  that  I  relax  ?  — 
that  toil,  and  destitution,  and  danger,  have  any  effect 
upon  me  7  He  shall  live  to  find  himself  in  error.  I 
am  the  fate  —  the  blood-hound  that  will  follow,  and 


THE    MAN-HUNTER.  251 

must  find  him  at  last.  Let  him  give  up  the  contest  at 
once,  and  all  will  be  quiet  —  no  more  fear  for  him  — 
no  more  sad  labors  for  me  !  Of  what  value  is  life  to 
either  of  us  ?  But  yes  —  to  me,  it  is  of  value  ;  for  I 
have  a  deed  to  do,  an  act  of  justice  to  perform  on  the 
most  reckless  and  heartless  villain  that  ever  disgraced 
the  human  name.' 

'  And  his  name,  what  is  that  ? '  asked  Denbigh. 

'  Warne  —  Warne  —  the  brand  of  hell  be  on  him  ! ' 

*  Hush !  do  not  speak  so  loud  !  Look  !  there  is 
some  one  in  yonder  box  who  has  heard  you,'  said 
Denbigh  again,  in  a  suppressed  tone. 

'  I  care  not,'  replied  the  other.  '  This  devil  who 
walks  in  human  shape,  and  under  the  name  of  Warne, 
is  now  in  this  city.  He  has  eluded  me  for  a  short  —  a 
very  short  time  —  by  shifting  his  course  and  changing 
his  disguises.  But  I  am  here,  and  shall  find  him, 
wherever  he  lurks.     Be  sure  of  it.' 

At  this  moment  a  stranger  was  seen  stealing  from  a 
box,  where  he  had  been  taking  refreshment.  He 
appeared  by  his  walk  (for  the  two  speakers  saw  only 
his  back)  to  be  an  old  man.  He  said  nothing  ;  but, 
walking  up  towards  the  end  of  the  room,  where  a 
person  attached  to  the  inn  was  standing,  put  a  piece  of 
money  in  his  hand,  (evidently  more  than  sufficient  to 
discharge  his  bill,)  and  left  the  house. 

From  the  first  movement  of  the  stranger,  the  atten- 
tion of  Gordon  was  upon  him  —  his  neck  was  stretched 
out,  his  eyes  strained  and  wide  open  ;  he  even  seemed 
to  listen  to  his  tread. 

*  What  is  the  matter  ? '  said  Denbigh.  *  There  is 
nothing  but  an  old  man  there,  who  is  tottering  home  to 
bed.' 


252  THE    MAN-HTJNTER. 

Gordon  made  no  reply,  but  followed  the  person 
alluded  to  stealthily  from  the  house.  After  a  minute's 
space,  Denbigh  saw  him  again  hiding  behind  the 
buttress  of  a  building  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 
He  was  evidently  watching  the  stranger.  He  did  not 
continue  long,  however,  in  this  situation ;  but  stole 
forwards  cautiously.  After  proceeding  a  short  distance 
he  turned,  and  followed  the  windings  of  a  street  or 
road  that  intersected  the  principal  street  of  the  town, 
and  finally  disappeared  ! 

Denbigh  never  saw  him  again.  Three  or  four  days 
afterwards,  the  body  of  an  unknown  man  was  found 
in  a  copse  near  the  city  of  Dessau.  It  was  pierced 
with  wounds,  and  disfigured ;  and  the  clothes  were 
much  torn,  as  in  a  struggle.  From  one  hand  (which 
remained  clasped)  some  fragments  of  dress,  coarser 
than  what  belonged  to  the  body,  were  forced  with 
difficulty  ;  but  they  did  not  lead  to  detection.  The 
stranger  was  buried,  and  as  much  inquiry  made  re- 
specting him  as  is  usual  for  persons  for  whom  no  one 
feels  an  interest.  His  murderer  never  was  discovered. 
Denbigh  left  the  place  immediately  that  the  inquisition 
was  over.  He  did  not  volunteer  his  evidence  upon 
the  occasion.  His  natural  love  of  justice,  and  percep- 
tions of  right,  were  perhaps  obscured  by  his  affection 
for  his  friend  ;  besides  which,  nothing  that  he  could 
have  said  upon  the  occasion  would  have  exceeded  a 
vague  suspicion  of  the  fact.  At  all  events,  he  kept 
Gordon's  secret,  until  he  deemed  that  it  was  not  dan- 
gerous to  disclose  it. 

In  regard  to  Gordon  himself —  he  was  never  more 
heard  of.     A  man,  indeed,  bearing  somewhat  of  his 


THE    MAN-HUNTER.  253 

appearance,  was  afterwards  seen  in  the  newly  cleared 
country  near  the  Ohio  ;  but,  excepting  the  resemblance 
that  he  bore  to  Denbigh's  friend,  and  a  certain  intelli- 
gence beyond  his  situation,  (which  was  that  of  a  com- 
mon laborer,)  there  was  nothing  to  induce  a  belief  that 
it  was  the  same  person.  Whoever  he  might  be,  how- 
ever, even  he  too  now  has  disappeared.  He  was  killed 
accidentally,  while  felling  one  of  those  enormous  hem- 
lock trees,  with  which  some  parts  of  the  great  continent 
abound.  A  shallow  grave  was  scooped  for  him  ;  a 
fellow-laborer's  prayer  was  his  only  requiem ;  and, 
whatever  may  have  been  his  intellect,  whatever  his 
passions  or  strength  of  purpose,  the  frail  body  which 
once  contained  them  now  merely  fertilizes  the  glade  of 
an  American  forest,  or  else  has  become  food  for  the 
bear  or  the  jackall. 

[The  story  of  Aguirra,  referred  to  in  the  foregoing , 
narrative,  occurs  in  one  of  our  early  periodical  works, 
and  is  to  the  following  effect :  Aguirra  was  a  Spanish 
soldier,  under  the  command  of  Esquivel,  governor  of 
Lima  or  Potosi.  For  some  small  cause,  or  for  no  cause, 
(to  make  an  example,  or  to  wreak  his  spite,)  this  gov- 
ernor caused  Aguirra  to  be  stripped  and  flogged.  He 
received  some  hundred  stripes  ;  his  remonstrances  (that 
he  was  a  gentleman,  and  as  such  exempt  by  law  from 
such  disgrace,  and  that  what  he  had  done  was  unimpor- 
tant, and  justified  by  common  usage,)  being  treated  with 
contempt.  He  endured  the  punishment  in  the  presence 
of  a  crowd,  of  comrades  and  strangers,  and  swore 
(with  a  Spaniard's  spirit)  never  to  be  satisfied  but  with 
his  tyrant's  blood.     He  waited  patiently,  until  Esquivel 


254  THE    MAN-HUNTER. 

was  no  longer  governor;  refusing  consolation,  and 
declining  from  fancied  unworthiness,  all  honorable  em- 
ployment. But,  when  the  governor  put  off  his  authority, 
then  Aguirra  commenced  his  revenge.  He  followed 
his  victim  from  place  to  place — haunted  him  like  a 
ghost  —  and  filled  him  (though  surrounded  by  friends 
and  servants)  with  perpetual  dread.  No  place,  no  dis- 
tance could  stop  him.  He  has  been  known  to  track 
his  enemy  for  three,  four,  five  hundred  leagues  at  a 
time  !  He  continued  pursuing  him  for  three  years  and 
four  months ;  and  at  last,  after  a  journey  of  five 
hundred  leagues,  came  upon  him  suddenly  at  Cuzco; 
found  him,  for  the  first  time,  without  his  guards;  and 
instantly  —  stabbed  him  to  the  heart ! 

Such  is  the  story  of  Aguirra.  It  is  believed  to  be 
^  fact ;  and  so  is  the  story  which  I  have  recounted 
above.  The  circumstances  are  not  only  curious  as 
showing  a  strange  coincidence,  but  they  show  also 
what  a  powerful  effect  a  narrative  of  this  kind  may 
produce.  For,  there  is  little  doubt,  but  that  the  South 
American  tale,  although  it  may  not  absolutely  have 
generated  the  spirit  of  vengeance  in  Gordon's  mind, 
so  shaped  and  modified  it,  as  to  stimulate  his  flagging 
animosity  ;  carried  him  through  all  impediments  and 
reverses  to  the  catastrophe ;  and  enabled  him  to  exhibit 
a  perseverence,  that  is  to  be  paralleled  no  where,  except 
perhaps  in  the  history  of  fanatics  or  martyrs.] 

1833. 


THE   TWO  SOLDIERS. 


AN    APOLOGUE. 


To  his  son,  Wilhelm,  fresh  from  college,  and  proud 
of  his  learning,  obtained  from  Greek  and  Roman 
writers,  the  merchant  Singelhart  related  the  following 
story :  — 

'  Two  soldiers,  who  had  been  taken  prisoners  in 
battle,  contrived,  after  a  long  slavery,  to  escape.  The 
elder  of  the  two,  whose  name  was  Platow,  had  a  mild 
and  thoughtful  nature.  In  the  younger,  Ulric,  appeared 
a  mixture  of  boldness  and  vivacity,  such  as  may  be 
seen  in  garrison  towns,  and  such  as  (ladies  say)  should 
belong  to  soldiers. 

'  There  was  nothing  in  common  between  the  two  men, 
save  their  common  danger.  This  produced  a  partial 
alliance  of  offence  and  defence,  between  them  ;  and  on 
this  subject  they  held  occasional  conferences.  But  for 
the  most  part,  they  travelled  silently  by  each  other's 
side,  or  shared  the  fruit  and  berries  and  chance  ears  of 
rice  or  wild  corn  which  they  discovered  on  their  way. 

'  They  had  to  pass  through  strange  countries,  as  yet 
scarcely   guessed   at  by   geographers.     They  beheld 


256  THE    TWO    SOLDIERS. 

extensive  prairies  which  the  buffalo  haunts,  and  track- 
less savannas  where  the  wild  horse  and  the  zebra  enjoy 
boundless  liberty.  They  penetrated  savage  regions, 
where  even  man  preys  upon  his  fellow,  and  lands 
debateable  and  arid  deserts,  where  shepherds,  armed 
to  the  teeth,  overlook  their  flocks,  or  where  roving 
bands  settle  for  a  time,  but  have  no  permanent  home. 
At  last,  after  many  days'  toil,  they  left  a  rich  alluvial 
flat,  where  they  for  some  time  had  been  travelling,  and 
began  to  ascend  a  bleak  and  mountainous  country 
which  appeared  never  to  have  been  subjected  to  the 
hand  of  man.  The  snow  (though  it  was  almost  sum- 
mer) lay  upon  the  higher  peaks,  whilst  through  the 
passes,  where  their  road  lay,  fierce  rain  and  howling 
winds  kept  up  incessant  clamor.  It  was  nearly  night 
when  they  arrived  at  a  spot  somewhat  sheltered.  Yet 
even  there  it  was  wild  and  gloomy,  without  fruits  and 
without  flowers ;  tlie  black  pine-trees,  together  with 
scanty  grasses  and  a  few  ears  of  shrunken  corn,  being 
all  that  redeemed  it  from  utter  barrenness.  Fatigue 
was  stronger  than  hunger,  and  they  slept. 

'  In  the  morning,  just  as  the  sun  began  to  throw  a 
cold  light  over  the  eastern  mountains,  the  travellers 
awoke. 

*"Ha!  what  is  this  .? "  inquired  Ulric.  It  was  too 
plain.  They  were  each  bound  fast  to  a  rugged  tree, 
"  We  are  in  the  toils,"  continued  the  speaker. 

'  "  Yes,"  answered  Platow,  "  our  strength  of  mind 
which  we  discoursed  upon  so  long  yesterday  has  now 
an  opportunity  of  showing  itself." 

'  "  Ah!  "  replied  Ulric,  "  if  I  were  not  so  hungry 
you  would  soon  see  —  " 


THE    TWO    SOLDIERS.  257 

*  At  this  moment  a  young  girl,  six  or  seven  years 
of  age,  of  a  rough  but  pleasant  aspect,  came  smiling 
towards  them;  she  bore  in  her  hands  a  large  bowl  of 
milk,  and  under  her  arm  was  a  wrapper  composed  of 
strips  of  bark  or  tough  grass,  which  being  opened 
displayed  some  large  pieces  of  barley  bread. 

'"Eat!  drink!" — said  she  ;  and  her  orders  were 
obeyed  with  alacrity.  She  waited  till  they  had  finished 
their  meal,  and  then  said,  "My  father  will  come  and 
judge  you  presently  ;  but  don't  be  afraid,  he  is  not  so 
terrible  as  he  looks ; "  and  with  these  words  she  left 
them. 

'  It  was  an  anxious  moment.  Platow  summoned  up 
his  resolution  to  bear  the  worst  with  calmness ;  and 
Ulric  was  inventing  some  ingenious  falsehood  to  ex- 
cuse himself  for  intruding  within  their  host's  very  unin- 
viting territory,  when  a  loud  rough  voice  was  heard  at 
a  distance,  and  presently  a  giant  of  vast  size  walked 
sturdily  towards  them,  carrying  in  his  hand  a  young 
pine,  plucked  up  by  the  roots. 

*  "  What  have  you  come  here  for?"  quoth  he,  when 
he  was  close  to  them.  His  voice  sounded  like  thunder. 
"  Speak  !  you  are  spies  from  the  plains.  What  is  it 
you  want .''  Is  not  your  land  fat  enough,  that  you  must 
come  here  and  spy  out  the  poverty  of  my  home  }■ 
Will  you  steal  the  few  goats  that  give  food  to  me  and 
my  children  .?  Will  you  rob  me  of  my  little  hoard  of 
dry  corn  ?  This  is  the  second  time  that  you  have  come 
to  pilfer  from  me  ;•  and  now,  villains,  you  shall  die  !." 

*"Ah,  sir!"  exclaimed  Ulric  —  he  could  utter  no 
more. 

'  "  We   are   poor   travellers,"   said  Platow ;   "  and 

VOL.  I.  17 


258  THE    TWO    SOLDIERS. 

were  passing,  by  accident,  through  your  country.  Our 
ohly  wish  is  to  reach  once  more  the  land  where  we 
were  born." 

'  "  We  will  give  you  gold,"  interrupted  Ulric  ;  and 
he  tendered  some  coins  for  the  giant's  acceptance,  who 
looked  contemptuously  upon  them. 

'  "  What  stutf  is  here  ?  "  quoth  he  ;  and  whirled  the 
useless  metal  over  a  mountain  summit  some  hundreds 
of  feet  high.  "  Do  you  think  to  bribe  me  with  dirt 
like  this  ?  Of  what  use  is  it  to  me  .?  Will  it  give  me 
food  or  clothing  .?  will  it  teach  me  —  " 

*  "  We  will  teach  you  wisdom,"  joyfully  cried  Ulric. 

*  "  Ha  !  "  said  the  giant,  "  that,  indeed,  is  some- 
thing.    Come,  let  us  begin." 

'  Ulric,  who  belonged  to  several  societies  for  diffusing 
useful  (and  a  little  useless)  knowledge,  and  who  out- 
talked  every  member  at  the  annual  meetings  of  the 
philosophers,  eagerly  commenced.  "  I  shall  first  ex- 
plain to  you  the  latest  theories  respecting  meteorolites, 
or  stones  thrown  from  the  moon." 

'"The  what?"  cried  the  other  angrily ;  but  recol- 
lecting himself,  he  muttered  aside,  "  I  perceive  that 
this  is  a  jackass,  or  talking  idiot." 

'  "  Well,"  pursued  Ulric,  "  if  you  have  no  interest  in 
that  subject,  I  will  show  you  how  to  unroll  a  mummy." 

'  Platow  smiled,  and  explained  the  nature  of  mum- 
mies, when  the  giant  observed,  "  but  we  have  no 
mummies  here  ! " 

'  Ulric  admitted  that  this  was  an  objection,  and  said, 
"  Then  I  will  unfold  to  you  the  mysteries  of  storms." 

*  "  That  sounds  well,"  said  his  host ;  "  you  can  tell 
mc  when  a  storm  i&  coming  ?  " 


THE    TWO    SOLDIERS.  259 

*  "  No,  not  that,"  answered  Ulric. 
'  "  Nor  how  to  avert  it  ?  " 

'  "  No." 

'  "  Well  then,  you  know,  by  certain  signs,  how  long 
it  will  last !  " 

*  "  No." 

'  "  What  is  it  you  are  about  to  disclose,  then  ?  " 
inquired  the  other,  impatiently. 

'  "  I  will  show  you  how  storms  are  generated  and 
impelled  through  the  atmosphere,  and  how  they  some- 
times revolve  or  proceed  in  circles,  and  how  —  " 

'  "  Bah  !  "  exclaimed  the  giant ;  "all  this  is  for  the 
people  of  the  air." 

'  "  It  is  really  difficult  to  hit  on  a  subject,"  said 
Ulric,  now  a  little  perplexed.  At  last  a  bright  thought 
suddenly  illumined  his  countenance,  and  he  said  —  "  I 
will  explain  to  you  the  theory  of  rent,  and  show  you 
how  to  hold  a  just  balance  between  the  manufacturing 
and  the  agricultural  interests." 

'  "  Hark  ye,  fellow!"  said  the  giant, now  thoroughly 
incensed,  "  you  are  laughing  at  my  ignorance.  You 
wish  me  to  nail  you  against  that  rock,  to  furnish  dinner 
for  the  eagles  !  " 

'  Ulric  protested  quickly  that,  although  self  was 
generally  below  his  thoughts,  yet  that  such  a  modo 
of  proceeding  would  be  particularly  disagreeable  to 
him. 

*  His  host  now  assumed  the  interrogator.  "  You 
appear  to  be  a  silly  fellow,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  may  be 
mistaken.  I  will,  therefore,  put  a  question  or  two  to 
ascertain  the  value  of  your  accomplishments.  Can 
you  wrestle  with  a  bear  }  " 


260  THE    TWO    SOLDIERS. 

'  Ulric  confessed  that  he  could  not,  with  •  any  pros- 
pect of  success.  * 

'  "  Or  come  close  upon  the  chamois  ?  " 

' "  No." 

' "  Or  shoot  dead  a  panther  ?  " 

'  "  No." 

'  "  Can  you  build  your  own  house  ?  or  weave  your 
clothes  or  bed  coverings  from  long  grasses  or  the  barks 
of  trees  .? " 

'  "  Can  you  choose  the  best  ears  of  com  ?  and  sow 
them  ?  and  weed  them  ?  and  water  them  ?  and  reap 
them  ?  and  grind  them,  and  turn  them  into  bread  ?  " 

♦  "No  — no  — no." 

'  "  Yet  we  consider  these  things  important  in  our 
country,  and  even  in  yours  they  cannot  be  entirely 
without  use." 

*  The  dialogue  which  we  have  endeavored  thus  far 
to  repeat,  was  extended  to  considerable  length.  At 
the  end  of  it  the  giant  retired,  saying  that  he  should 
now  take  some  rest,  and  that  he  would  determine  on 
their  fate  in  the  evening.  He  left  them  with  a  grim 
smile  upon  his  countenance.  Ulric's  spirit  fell,  and  he 
announced  to  his  brother  prisoner  that  one  or  both  of 
them  would,  in  all  probability,  be  cooked  for  supper. 

'  After  the  lapse  of  an  hour  or  two,  the  little  girl, 
who  had  before  brought  them  food  for  their  breakfast, 
was  seen  again  coming  towards  them  with  a  supply  for 
their  noon-day  meal.  By  this  time,  Ulric,  after  pro- 
digious etTorts,  had  contrived  to  free  himself  from  his 
bonds,  and  with  his  knife,  which  he  then  was  able  to 
unsheath,  he  had  also  severed  the  bonds  of  his  com- 


THE    TWO    SOLDIERS.  261 

panion,  whom  he  was  urging  to  escape.  As  soon  as 
he  saw  the  child  approaching,  he  exclaimed  — 

'  "  Ha  !  here  is  the  monster's  cub  again.  She  will 
cry,  and  alarm  tlie  brute  who  keeps  us  here.  Come 
hither,  young  devil  ! "  said  he,  seizing  the  child. 
"  Your  father  has  made  us  suffer,  and  we  will  now 
give  him  something  to  remember  us  by."  He  raised 
his  knife  for  a  sacrifice. 

'"Stop  !  It  shall  not  be  so,  Ulric,"  cried  Platow, 
interposing  ;  "  you  shall  not  kill  the  child.  It  has  not 
harmed  us." 

'  "  It  shall  die  !  "  cried  the  other,  furiously. 

*  "  It  shall  live  !  "  said  Platow,  firmly.  "  I  swear 
that  you  shall  not  harm  it.  What !  did  it  not  give  us 
milk  this  morning,  and  will  you  pay  it  back  in  blood  at 
noon  .?  " 

'  He  spoke  in  vain.  Ulric  seized  the  child  by  the 
throat.  At  that  instant,  a  laugh  that  made  the  moun- 
tains ring,  sounded  close  behind  them.  The  giant  was 
there.  He  held  a  mighty  club,  which  he  brandished 
threateningly  on  high.  A  moment  more,  and  as  it 
seemed,  they  would  be  smashed  into  a  jelly. 

*  "  Soh,  rascals  !  this  is  the  way  you  pay  me  for  my 
milk  and  corn,"  cried  their  host.  "  Come,  let  me  see 
which  I  shall  kill  first.  Ha  !  this  is  the  fattest."  And 
with  one  hand  he  seized  Ulric  by  the  waist,  and  turned 
him  round  carelessly  in  the  air,  as  one  would  turn  a 
rat.  After  satisfying  himself  as  to  'his  victim's  condi- 
tion, he  tossed  him  gently  down  and  said,  "  Now 
villain  !  strip  and  be  quick.  I  can't  roast  you  with 
these  rags  on.  But,  first,  have  you  anything  to  say 
why  you  should  not  die  ?  I  will  give  you  a  fair  trial. 
You  have  two  minutes  to  make  your  defence." 


262  THE    TWO    SOLDIERS. 

'  Ulric  stammered  out  some  unintelligible  words  in 
his  extremity  :  but  in  the  end  he  gave  in^  and  answered 
simply,  "  Nothing." 

*  "  Well,"  said  the  giant,  "  that  is  good  at  least. 
And  you?"  he  asked,  addressing  himself  to  Platow, 
who  replied, 

'  "I  had  your  child  in  my  power,  and  —  I  did  not 
kill  her." 

'"Kill  her!"  echoed  the  other.  "What!  kill  a 
child  !  Is  that  what  they  teach  ye  to  do  in  your  coun- 
try.?" 

'  "  Well,  then,  I  saved  her  from  death." 

*  "  That's  better  ; "  returned  the  other ;  "  and  for 
that,  —  mark  !  I  will  spare  you." 

'  "  And  my  companion,  too.?  "  said  Platow. 

*  "  No  ;  he  must  die." 

'  "  Spare  him  for  my  sake,"  urged  Platow,  again. 

'  The  giant  looked  gravely,  but  kindly,  upon  him 
and  said  :  "  For  your  sake  }  —  Well,  I  will  spare  him 
too.  And  now,  know,  men,  that  I  have  listened  to 
your  talk.  You  have  never  been  out  of  my  grasp ;  — 
no,  not  for  a  moment.  Had  you  harmed  my  poor, 
sickly  child,  death  instantly  should  have  been  your 
fate.  But  one  of  you  was  merciful,  —  and  mercy 
begets  mercy.  A  good  deed  should  be  returned  two- 
fold. And  it  is  thus  that  I  endeavor  to  repay  one. 
Strangers  !  we  are  poor  and  wild  people  ;  but  we  have 
heads  and  hearts,  fashioned  after  the  same  model  as 
your  own.  And  we  wish,  when  you  return  to  your 
rich  and  pleasant  country,  that  you  should  be  able  to 
say,  that  there  is  no  spot,  however  savage,  where  men 
may   not   learn   something,  —  no   spot  where  human 


THE    TWO    SOLDIERS.  263 

gratitude  does  not  flourish,  and  where  the  wisdom  of 
kindness  may  not  be  taught." 

*  A  few  evenings  afterwards,  as  the  two  soldiers, 
well  supplied  with  food,  were  travelling  quietly  towards 
their  home,  Ulric  observed  an  unusual  silence.  At 
length,  he  said  to  his  companion,  "  I  have  been  thinking 
that  the  giant's  heart  —  perhaps  his  mind  — was  almost 
as  large  as  his  body." 

*  "  I  have  thought  so  all  along,"  replied  the  other. 
'By  this  time  they  had  reached  their  native  land; 

and  when  they  arrived  at  the  gates  of  the  principal 
city,  Sapienza,  they  parted ;  each  taking  his  way  to 
his  own  home.  It  is  said  that  the  seeds  sown  by  the 
mountain  giant  were  not  thrown  away,  even  on  the 
rocky  bosom  of  Ulric.  He  became  a  wiser  and  a 
better  man.  In  Platow  they  produced  a  less  obvious 
benefit,  the  change  within  him  being  less ;  but  the 
events  of  his  journey  were  ever  afterwards  gratefully 
remembered.  And  when,  in  later  years,  his  children 
clustered  round  him,  he  would  often  amuse  and  instruct 
them  on  summer  evenings,  by  relating  to  them  the 
fruitful  lesson  of  wisdom  which  in  his  youth  he  had 
heard  amongst  the  barren  mountains.' 

1837. 


END    OF   VOL.    I. 


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